


I'm Your Mate No Matter What

by sherlocked221



Series: Though Not In Heat-I'm Hot for You [4]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Ringo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Lots of Crying, M/M, POV George, POV John, POV Paul, POV Ringo, References to Knotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 30,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11235414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: Things are all going alright in 1967.Ringo and George are going strong, Paul and John are their usual selves,Then John gets a call that shatters everything.





	1. George

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how good the first 3 chapters are, because I haven't looked over them, but enjoy.

It is very hot. For England, it is so very hot. The June heat is humid and sweltering. Everything has a warm orange hue around it, circles of light spiralling off anything that will reflect the strong rays. Colour is brighter, leaves on blossomed trees, even in the city, buildings, usually with the greyest of brickwork, now sparkle almost white. The sky is a rich blue, clouds that are fluffy and white creep across it, hoping not to be seen spoiling the perfect view, but what would the sky be without it’s clouds. I think it looks prettier having them there in wispy, smoke-like streaks or healthy round cotton wool balls. I may never have learnt the proper names for different clouds at school, but I don’t care what you call them. I just like the image they give, the sunny day these clouds help paint.

A sunny day that I don’t feel at all part of. I don’t even see the clouds, the sky. I can feel the sun, though. I’m sitting in a boiling hot, cigarette smoke polluted studio in EMI, sweating my butt off while Paul and John are talking about a song we’re meant to be recording. If they spent half as much time actually playing the song, I often think they might smooth out much of the problems they run into, instead of talking and getting pissed off at one another. Especially in this heat. John can be a bastard in the cold, but in the heat, with everyone’s tempers fraying, everyone just a little too uncomfortable for their liking, John can be a real catalyst for most arguments that go on, almost all of them, in fact.

I wasn’t even expecting to be back in the studio so quickly. We’ve just released Sgt Pepper’s to a world hungry for something other than mindless love songs, to a world that’s changed quite a bit from our 1963 days, to a world that’s been waiting for the Beatles’ bubble to burst. Well we showed them that we are not only still here, but that we are going to be bigger than ever.

And after that particular statement in the form of an epic album, I was sort of hoping for a break while it skyrocketed into No.1. That may not have taken at all long, but we could watch the money roll in for a while, take some time to write some songs before we have to head back into the studio.

Of course, fuck no! John and Paul wouldn’t have it. They weren’t going to wait for the likes of me to take some time and write some songs that would probably only get a couple of spaces on the next album. John had already got an idea for our next single. I wonder if the man ever fucking sleeps. I don’t, not anymore. I’m either working until late with them lot, or I’m home with Ringo making use of the night we do get to spend together.

Ringo’s out getting something ice cold to drink. I miss having him to talk to when he’s not around, even if it’s for 5 minutes. I notice his absence in an instant. There are less random drum solos being played when in the background, no one to talk to when Paul and John have started their usual conversing that didn’t include either their guitarist or drummer. Boy did we feel like part of the group when they did that. Ringo is often the only thing that makes me feel like a Beatle.

Thank God, he comes back soon, holding two bottles of sweating coke and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits back down on his drum stool and hands me one of the cokes. We each down about half of it before looking up at one another, both our faces shining in sweat and coloured pink at the cheeks. Ringo leans forward, his arm stretched out towards me, and moves a strand of my hair that had been stuck to my forehead away to conform to the rest of the style. We’ve all sort of outgrown (quite literally) our mop tops. My hair is now much longer, the fringe parted in the middle forming two swoops. The back of my hair curls up a bit.

Ringo, ok he has mostly kept his mop top, but it’s longer. He’s also taken to having a pair of thick sideburns lining almost down to his jaw.

“How is everything?” He inquires in a low voice, telling me to be honest.

“It’s alright,” I lie. I want Ringo to run his fingers through my hair now. He does that when we’re going to sleep. I’m tired and he just gave me a small tease of it by tiding that one strand away. But I know that we can’t do that sort of thing here. We have to be professional in here as a rule by George Martin and Bri, not to mention all the people that could just walk in. No one really knows about us, not even something as obvious as John and Paul. To the rest of the world, we’re Betas and that’s how we have to stay.

Actually, thinking about this whole ‘professional’ rule, the amount of times that John and Paul get into arguments and yell about their domestic life in the heat of the fight is innumerable. They should technically not do that, but I guess the make-up sex when they get home is what they live for. Ringo and I barely last through the front door- we do, though, or all the fans that hang outside would probably think it quite strange- before we start making out, and we usually haven’t even been fighting the whole day. I bloody well hope this session will end at some point today and we’ll get to go home, Ringo and me. If it’s not too late or still quite warm, we might sit out in the garden and have a quick dinner. I’m not even thinking too much about having him fuck me tonight, I simply want to be with him for a while, saying exactly what we want, talking about something other than work, kissing like nobody is watching (because no one is…)

“George, will you come here?” Paul says sweetly.

As get up to walk a total of six or seven small steps, I whisper to Ringo, “I’m being summoned.”

He giggles softly. He’s so quiet and polite. Fuck, if I had to sit around for as long as he does, sit around, waiting for my friends to call me over as though I’m totally under their direction, I would certainly not be as nice about it as he is. I’ve kicked up a fight about far less, while he sits, content in quietly drumming, quiet so not to disturb the two at work. If it were me, I’d slap the cymbals until someone took notice.

We finish around 9 or 10 o’clock with barely a backing track recorded. All four of us file out onto the warmly lit street, it’s not even that dark yet, and we all decide to go back to Paul and John’s place. He suggested it since we’ll be straight back here tomorrow. I don’t really mind because Ringo and I can still have our fun at their place. They’ll probably be having their own fun, even with us in the next room.

We all get into John’s car and head out onto the unusually quiet London roads. Ringo sits beside me in the back, his hand etching towards mine until it clasps around me. I’m gazing out the window, distracted by my own thoughts when he squeezes my fingers to get my attention.

“The radio,” He breathes. I listen to the radio which is very quietly playing in the background. The song happens to be Fixing a Hole, Paul’s vocals coming through sounding different from how we heard it having stood next to him when he was singing. We’d heard it in the studio, the finished product but this, hearing it on the radio, everything sounds different. It makes me smile. It never ceases to make me feel proud. This is what we dreamed of, this is what we have become, and I still feel like that kid auditioning for a band called the Quarrymen when I was around 14 years old.

“Paul,” I pipe up, tapping his shoulder, “You hear that? On the radio?”

He pauses for a second, “Yeah, yeah I do!” We all get that feeling in our stomachs. That’s us! We all get quite emotional for the rest of the car ride. I see Paul taking John’s hand when the latter isn’t changing gear. All the arguments they had during the recordings seem to be forgotten, I finally let all the comments hurled at me go as well, the anger I built up about my single track out of 14, I decide not to think about it. I kiss Ringo instead. As I lean over to him, he wraps his arms around me on the inside of my shirt. It may be boiling, but I’d risk dehydrating to have Ringo hug me.


	2. Ringo

John gives me and George the cosy guest room beside his own. It has a huge double bed with a heavy duvet that I don’t really look at, because it’s way too hot to sleep under that. Not to mention the fact that I’m not planning to do much of that sleeping business. I feel a bit bad for sizing up the room according to positions I can have George in and the possibilities of the furniture in there, but, judging by John yelling at us from the corridor, “Yeh don’t mind if we’re loud, do yeh?” I assume he has the same idea.

George also seems to have a similar mind set. As soon as the door is closed, he leaps around the bed towards me and finishes a kiss I had started earlier which was broken by Paul.

When we got inside Paul and John’s home, I waited until the latter had gone off to check what was in the kitchen that we could eat, before, with Paul still in the room, turning around and pinning George against the wall, my lips prying his open. My hands clutched his wrists, pushing them back like my fingers were cuffs attached to the wall. I don’t know why I suddenly felt the need to kiss him. I guess it was an impulse carried over from when we were in the car, having heard one of our songs on the radio. You’d think it would get boring, that it’s the same old, same old, that we’ve heard it once in the studio, there’s no point in getting excited when we hear it again. But we don’t get excited as such. It makes us feel like we’re that little Liverpudlian group, just turned down by Decca records, heading into obscurity just before we released Love Me Do.

The first time we ever heard ourselves on the radio, I cried. I’m a bit of an emotional wimp, really, but I never thought I’d ever get to the point in my life where I was hearing my hands drum on the radio. It was also one of the first times I realised how much I liked George. He threw his arms around me, giggling breathlessly as he asked me why I was crying.

Anyway, Paul broke our kiss by announcing, “You two count as one of my greatest achievements, you know.”  I pulled away from George, grinning at his slightly bewildered, but satisfied expression.

He peered over my shoulder to counter, “You realise you just heard one of your songs on the radio and you’re considering us as a great achievement?”

Paul is still a smug dick over the whole getting George and me together. He sees us kissing, he thinks ‘I did that.’ Sometimes he says it, to himself or to John. Well, if you made us ‘this’ why not let us be it instead of distracting us.

George takes it upon himself to remind me that we never finished making out. We start by the door, then work our way back onto the bed until I’ve buckled backwards onto it. I expect him to straddle me, but he doesn’t right away. He takes advantage of me in this position, my legs bent over the edge of the mattress and spread and slides onto his knees between them. He leans forward, sticks out his tongue for me to see and licks my clothed crotch, wetting the thick grey fabric. I arch upwards with the feeling, but the wetness doesn’t soak all the way through. I want it, bad. He follows the outline of my swelling knot, up my member to the waistband of my trousers.

“George, please… please…” I gasp. He moves my shirt up my chest to lick my stomach. The sensitivity of his lips closing around my flesh makes me flinch, “No…” I groan, “Down please Georgie.”

“Shhh,” He hisses, lifting his head up for a second before going back to licking around my belly button. I’m pretty sure I’m meant to be the Alpha here. How dare he…

…fuck that feels good! One hand replicates what his tongue had been doing on my crotch. It’s a strange mix of cold and hot, the line his tongue runs around my skin becoming cold, his hand boiling hot. Ok, I’ll let him have his fun.

I do not get enough of Georgie these days. He’s always at EMI with Paul and John, constantly, night and day, eight days a week. I don’t blame him. I probably should be there too, but after the boring sessions of Sgt Pepper, I’ve given up being there when I don’t need to be. You know what I got out of those recording sessions? I learnt to play chess. My greatest memory? Dressing up in front of cardboard cut outs. If you ask Paul the same question, he might say he liked introducing the fictional Billy Sheers on the first track or messing about on the electric piano for ‘Getting Better’ so to get the right sound. You ask John, he might say trying to sing ‘Being for the Benefit of Mr Kite’ as fast as possible and all in one breath. You ask Georgie and he’d probably say recording the sitar for ‘Within You, Without You.’

Me? I liked doing everything away from the studio. Even recording ‘With a Little Help’ was shit. I wanted to go home, it was late, we could’ve finished the song the next day, but being John and Paul and George, they wanted it done that night. They stood around the mic to make me feel better as I sung it.

It did not make me feel better.

“Ringo, luv,” George mutters. He’s pulled open my trousers and has me in his hand.

“Yes… Georgie?” I breathlessly reply.

He chuckles a little, “Can you hear them?”

The distinct sound of Paul moaning again and again melts through the walls. I wince.

“I don’t really want to. You’re a dirty little voyeur George.” I joke. His lips turn upwards into an evil grin.

I learnt that he likes to ‘watch’ a while ago. He walked in on me… well, you can guess doing what. Not knowing how to deal with the situation, he walked out again, all embarrassed. I tried to tell him that I was ok with it, that we probably both touch ourselves still, that there should be nothing wrong with that, but he wouldn’t comment on it. Later on, however, when we were making out, he asked me if he could watch me… doing that. Ok, so I was a little daunted, it took me a while to reach the ‘end’ with his eyes darting over me, but eventually I realised how hot it was. I could see how turned on he was getting, just by watching, just by seeing me.

“You know that I am.” He tells me, winking charmingly, “but it makes me think, I like this, how it is. I have you, Paul has John, none of us judge what we all do with one another. I want things to stay like this.”

“You’re talking too much,” I laugh, “Get back to sucking my dick, will you, Luv?”

He smiles again, teasing me with a lick so close to where I want it, but not close enough. Paul and John are really loud in the next room. While I am trying not to listen, I can’t deny how hot it sounds, filling up the house. George is a lot quieter than Paul, but I always try to get him yelling out for me to fuck him.

I guess it’s my turn today.


	3. Paul

There is nowhere better than the studio at EMI. Every time I stride in there, I feel at home. I do love being at home with John, but I love making music with him more. When he came to me saying he had a song that we had to do as a single, get it recorded and released soon, I practically jumped into the car and sped down London’s packed streets to Abbey Road without having told anyone I was going. George Martin might’ve had a few things to say had I done that, not to mention not telling Eppy where we were might’ve made him murder us.

Unfortunately, this trip to EMI would not be the most comfortable. It was so humid, it was cramped, it was frustrating. I’d stripped down to my waist because the shirt I wore just clung to me as though it had been drenched in honey or something.

Oh, and I was in heat. Talk about being hot, I was aching. I nipped off to the toilet three or four times to have a quick play so that I might be able to concentrate. John loved seeing me so desperate. He would deliberately ask me to look at something just as I was running off to the loo, because he knew what I was going to do. The bastard would actually laugh when I squirmed.

Thank fuck we’re home! I don’t bother with dinner. I also couldn’t give a shit that Ringo and George are here. When we’re all eating in the living room, John and I on the sofa, I run my hand up his leg, splay my fingers between his thighs. Instead of getting turned on, he laughs again.

“Fuck you,” I growled into his ear. He carried on eating his food. “You better reward me for being such a fucking good boy all day.”

“You think I’m going to reward you after that?” Was all he said before he started talking to Ringo again.

In our room, I begin undressing, so hard that I’m practically bursting out of my trousers. John is in the corridor, walking to the room after showing George and Ringo’s there’s and I hear him call “Yeh don’t mind if we’re loud, do yeh?” While the boys laugh, thinking I’m going to get what I’ve been wanting all night- they saw me being all too handsy with John- I know I’m going to get _something_. Torture. I see it in John’s eyes when he walks in.

I give him a pleading look as I stand, helplessly nude, desperately turned on, begging him not to make me suffer tonight. He doesn’t have any reaction. He walks towards me, slowly, wrapping his arms around me, oddly unhurried. He begins kissing me gently, gradually speeding up. I hate that he’s clothed, so I take the unnerving comfortability and run my hands down the opening of the shirt, getting to the bottom, then unbuttoning on the way up.

“Careful, Paulie. You’re going too fast.”

And here we go with the torture. He pushes my hands down by my side with a breathed threat to tie me up if I move them. He continues kissing me, slowly, sensuously, hands remaining at my neck or head. Fuck! I need more. I could beg for more.

In fact, I do.

I drop to my knees and fumble desperately with his fly, removing his member before he has a chance to stop me. I lick my lips, fuck I can taste him already.

“Paul, don’t you dare.” He warns.

“Please John, please. I’m sorry for earlier. I want you, I want you so bad, I’m desperate.” I sway my hips forward and back, wishing I was able to get lower and rub myself on the floor. Anything, anything to relieve the wonderful ache.

John chuckles, leaning down, smiling right at me. He places his fingers under my chin then pulls up, bending my neck back so far that I forget to breathe. Instead, I make some garbled gasp noise. “Listen to me, luv,” He sounds so playful, so proud of himself for some reason, “If you’re that desperate, you move at my speed, or have nothing. You can go and fuck yourself in the toilet like you did at the studio, if you like.”

I whimper.

He lets my chin go and takes my wrist with a harsh grasp. Practically dragging me across the scratchy carpet, he guides me to the bed on which he tells me to lie down, face up. He gives more instructions; no touching, no moving away from him, no moving my hands from above my head, no moving into his touch. I quietly and reluctantly nod.

I fucking _hate_ John sometimes.

Well, not really, but I could swear and curse and slap and punch him enough times that you would think so.

He undresses in front of me, watching me as I watch him. I remember when he had some self-conscious issues and refused to undress for me. All of which seems to be forgotten. He discards his shirt as though it melted off him, revealing his chest, with is mostly bare, save for the small dusting of very light hair nearer the top. He’s a lot thinner now, his face slightly losing its roundness, his torso elongating. He’s pretty pale because he rarely takes his shirt off, unlike me or Ringo, but that’s how I like him. I fucking love him. He looks so beautiful, so handsome, so sexy. How couldn’t he see it before? He is no better thin than he was fat, but he’s happier like this, which makes me happy as well. Especially because he’ll let me look at him properly.

He drops his trousers next. I almost pass out when he does. He’s hard, thick, dripping in sweat. I want him so bad, but I do well not to move.

He crawls onto the bed, seemingly unaware of how gorgeous he looks like that. No, I bet he knows. I bet the bastard knows what he’s doing to me as he kisses up my legs and purposefully misses my member by miles. He makes sure he doesn’t touch it at all, arching his stomach to avoid it.

He kisses me the way he did before, slowly, so gently, its hardly worth it. I try to speed it up with minuscule gestures, but he ignores them. He even slows down at one point, removing his tongue from mine. I sob.

After a little while of torturous kisses, he leans back, shows me two of his long, skilled fingers and strokes down to enter me with a very soft push. I am leaking. I’ve slicked all over the bed, all over my inner thighs. It takes no effort to get inside me, yet he does it millimetre by millimetre. I’m crying out so loud that I’m sure Ringo and George can probably hear me, not that I care at all. I have to focus all my attention on assuring I don’t do anything that will make John stop.

Once all the way in, he pauses to kiss my belly. I flinch.

“I love you, Paulie,” He jokes, “I adore you my Paulie,” He kisses me again, “You’re such a good, kind, nice boy Paulie.” He drives out of me, then back in again, “You’re the sweetest boy ever Paulie.”

“John, I’m sorry!” I yell.

He starts a very slow rhythm this two fingers, “Oh I’m sure you are, Paulie. But you’re also thankful, aren’t you? Say ‘thank you’ to me.”

John and his fucking games. My eyes are so tightly closed that all the muscles in my face hurt. My mouth is permanently dropped open so the involuntary moans can escape easily. My mind is cleared, thinking only about one thing, the wonderful pleasure of release. “Thank you, John, thank you, this feels so good, it does.” I waffle. All chance of making sense has been crushed by John’s torture.

“As I said, you’re such a good boy. And you’re not going to be naughty again, are you, my luv.”

“No.”

“Good.” He speeds up. I did something right! He speeds up so quickly that I’m teetering on that edge before I know it.

Then he stops, my whole body jolts. “Fuck! John…”

“You’ll learn, my dearest.”

You’ll fucking learn, you bastard. I bet Ringo never does this shit to George. Then again, George wouldn’t take it. He’d probably pin Ringo down on the bed, teach him who’s really the boss. But then, he’d never want to put Ringo through this, either.

I know that I love it. When it’s done, when I’m done, I’ll wish it lasted longer.

But right now, I can’t. I want to finish.

He edges me closer to come three or four times before he lifts my legs up over his hips and enters me. It barely takes a couple of thrusts before he’s climaxing inside me and I am all over his stomach.

We lie together side by side in the boiling hot room. In all of the torture, we’d forgotten to open a window and it’s got overly stuffy in here. Despite the heat, though, I curl up against John who kisses me.

“I’m sorry, Luv, but you were naughty.”

I turn my head up and lick his jawline, “No it’s fine.”

Then a voice comes from the other room, “Thank fuck you both have finished! We might be able to get some sleep now!”

“Go fuck yourself, George!” John yells back,

to which Ringo replies, “Already done!”

We all giggle from the different rooms. I’ve missed this. It’s like being back in Hamburg. All we need is Eppy yelling us from another room to shut up and get to sleep.


	4. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months later and the Beatles are taking a break.

I think it’s going to be a good year. No tours, no fans, not even any Beatles. We were Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Of course, we still are the Beatles, but it was so nice to have a change, for so many people to enjoy our music again, rather than asking when we’d stop being so famous, when people would get bored of us. We’ve proved that they never will.

Our album is soundtracking the hippy movement, you hear it everywhere you go. All You Need Is Love is another No 1 and we have not much to do for a while. That means I can spend some time with Paulie at home, rather than going off to EMI every day, spending all my time there, seeing him, but working with him.

It’s almost the end of the summer now, yet it’s sweltering still. Paul and I spend a lot of our time in the garden. He usually doesn’t wear shirts anymore, hanging around the pool outside either in tight swimming trunks or jeans. He’s grown his hair a lot more, but kept it tidy. He’s handsome as ever.

I’ve lost a whole heap of weight, so I join him in abandoning the shirts in my wardrobe, but only in the house. Some habits die hard. I’ve been wearing my glasses more often because Paul told me I needed to. I think he likes them on me. I think it adds to my image.

We have as much time alone for now as we do going off and doing things as per our contract. We have another song idea, both Paul and I have a song each. We’re thinking of releasing them on a 7” but it depends on how they sound. Paul’s hoping for another double A side without even listening to my song idea. He wants to be equal with me. It’s sweet.

But it’s unrealistic. One of our songs is bound to be a B side. I doubt it will be mine. It’s a proper Sgt Pepper’s type thing. I’ll just wait to hear Paul’s arrangement.

Ringo and George have been going good. They turn up to make use of our pool, or for lunch, or to play songs like we’re the Quarrymen again, doing the whole ‘band practice’ thing. We can’t go without performing. We’re glad we don’t have to tour, but we half miss getting up on stage and playing to people who will actually listen.

George and Ringo are here today, lying on the deck chairs outside. Ringo has been frolicking in the pool, pretending to be some kind of model in a summer fashion magazine. In reality, he looks like he’s suffering from unfortunate case of uncool, which he never has before. I offer to call a doctor, he tells me to fuck off.

Paul has been trying to convince me to swim for the last hour. I’m not in the mood. I’m tired, a little bit horny seeing him in the pale blue trunks he’s strutting around in and I’m talking to George. The boy can’t see that. He’s a naughty attention hog. I teach him not to be later. Ringo comes to lie beside George’s deck chair while Paul jumps off the side of the pool, doing his Help! flag semaphore thing- one arm out to the side, the other directly up. He enters the water with a loud splash. I roll my eyes.

“So, you two have a new song?” George asks me.

“Song _s_ ,” I correct, “He’s got one that he thought of with Alistair, some call and response thing. I’ve got this crazy one that could be really groovy.”

George nods, “We getting back to the studio then?”

Ringo snorts, “I fucking well hope not. We just got the hell out of there. We can’t be going back just yet.”

I get that. We were in EMI every day for a while. Without all the touring, we record and record and record. Keeping ourselves busy, I guess. I could understand getting bored of not doing anything for a long time, but it’s so beautiful out right now, what would be the point of spending all our time inside. And if we started a new song, Paul would never let us have a single day off until it was finished. We couldn’t pick and choose the shit days when we didn’t want to lounge about.

Fucking Paul, always wants to be doing something, the bloody perfectionist.

“No, we’re going to enjoy the sun while it’s out.” I promise.

“And when the sun fucks off, I’m going to follow it.” George giggles, referencing Paul’s song ‘I’ll follow the sun.’ Very funny. Ringo laughs hard about it. He loves that sort of thing, references, jokes, allusions to our songs. He spent a whole night creating pick-up lines based on song lyrics. Honestly, for how mature he acts, you never would think him the oldest.

Paul emerges from the pool looking like the model Ringo was trying to be. He climbs up the steps onto the tiled pool edge, strides over the concrete surrounding and over to me. I’m very glad we have a very high fence, as Paul clambers onto my deck chair, straddling me.

“Fucking hell, you little dick, getting me all wet!” I cry, but I’m not actually upset about it. The cold pool water cools my steaming body. I lean up to kiss my dear Omega.

“Get a room.” George mutters. I reach over to slap him.

Then the phone rings.

“Phone.” Paul announces.

“Yeah, I heard.” I snap thinking, I have ears too, “I’ll get it.”

Paul lets me up by swinging his right leg off me. He lies on the deckchair when I’m gone. I hurry, feeling a cool breeze on all the patches of wetness on me, inside and seek out the phone. It’s nicely cold inside, so much better than the humid outside. The receiver is cold too, when I pick it up.

“Hello, Lennon speaking.” I say in a mock posh voice.

The person who called took a while to form a sentence. By the awkward ums and ahs, I guessed it was Alistair, Bri’s ex-PA. We hadn’t seen Bri in a while, since the last song we were recording in EMI. He was there for a couple of days. Finally, Alistair managed to speak, “John, look, I really have to tell you something, it’s important. Are you sitting down?”

This is all too serious for me. I continue my light-hearted approach to the call, feeling just a little nervous, “What does Bri want us to do?” I joke.

Alistair pauses again. What the hell is wrong.

“John, Brian is… he was found dead in his home.”

What?

My voice doesn’t work. My heart stops beating. My blood runs cold.

I look towards my friends outside, laughing, joking. How could they? How can they be so oblivious? Then again, how can they know? I don’t know how to feel. My first response is to be angry. My second is to remember how to breath.

“What?” I splutter.

“He was found dead at home from a drug overdose.”

“What? I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Brian…”

“No! I fucking got that! I just…” The receiver drops from my hand as I drop to my knees. Not this feeling. Not again. I’ve felt this once before. I know this feeling all too well and I HATE IT. I can’t breathe.

I look up at the receiver as though it had killed Eppy. I hear Alistair’s calls for me, asking if I’m ok and it pisses me off. I take the phone and smash it on the floor, tears welling in my eyes. I can’t go through this again.

Not someone else.

Not someone I loved.

Again…


	5. George

For a British summer, it’s fucking nice out. You’d expect the sun to piss off back to hot countries close to the end of summer, but here it stays, shining on us, lighting up the sparkling pool, making it glint a brighter blue. Ringo looks proper handsome wading around, giving me funny looks and poses. Paul does too, a picture of a man, gliding through the water as though he were a merman. He could even be a mermaid if he had longer hair and a pair of tits.

I bet John thinks so too. When Paul comes strutting over to us, straddling John’s legs and kissing him, you could see the younger man forming a long blue tail and side saddling John’s lap. I giggle at the thought.

“Get a room.” I joke, for which John leans over to slap me. I nudge the weak contact off my arm. He doesn’t mean to hurt, he knows it’s all in good fun.

“Phone.” Paul alerts us all to a call which I hadn’t even heard. It trills from inside, barely audible. He must have hawk-like hearing. John goes off to answer it, muttering something about ‘work calls.’

“Who do you think that is?” Ringo asks, lying back, almost disinterested in his own question. He bathes in the gorgeous rays, his chain hanging from his neck resting in sparkling dots on his chest. He gave me his rings to wear because I didn’t want to go in the pool. I still have the one he gave me hugging my middle finger. I twirl each of them idly as I watch my Alpha rest. No one answers his question, but he doesn’t press for one. Paul keeps glancing inside to see where John is. I bet he’s a little bit turned on after that kiss. When Ringo kisses me like that, I want to have him, no matter where we are.

I decide to take his mind off of it. “John said you had an idea for a new song.”

Paul gazes back at me, “Oh, it’s just an idea, no tune or anything. Nothing written down. He’s got lyrics for his one and a proper sound. Did he tell you about it?”

I shake my head.

“Have you got anything?” He asks.

I’m a little taken aback that does, actually. I usually tell him if I have a track, he rarely asks. I feel very spotlighted. Thank God Ringo has a mouth that acts as mine too, “You had something, didn’t you, George? You were playing it a couple of nights ago.”

Paul’s eyebrows raise in interest, “Really?”

“Yeah, I guess so, no-“

A loud bang from inside startles us. Ringo immediately sits up while mine and Paul’s eyes shoot towards the door. We don’t speak, we all just hurry inside, finding John on his knees and the phone crushed beside him.

“John?” Paul collapses in front of him. Ringo and I stand close to one another, confused, “John, what’s the matter?”

John peers up, his eyes welling with tears. He looks pissed off, very pissed off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Paul has, though. He has a worried look in his eyes, but a knowing one. John can’t speak, he can barely breath. We wonder if he hasn’t been too careful with drugs or something. Paul says it first, “You taken something?” but John shakes his head.

“Then what’s wrong, luv?” I ask, coming down to his level too. I sit by his side, cross-legged.

“Eppy…”

“Eppy what?”

Paul’s eyes widen even more. He rubs John’s back soothingly, peppering kisses on his cheek and moving strands of hair away from his eyes. He realises that John can’t speak at the moment, so he asks us to give them some space. We don’t want to leave him like this, so we head upstairs to the bedroom we use when we stay over. My mind is blank, completely void of everything.

I haven’t seen John like this before.

“What do you think happened?” Ringo is always one to question. I shake my head. I’ve lost my voice too. Ringo can’t be silent, though. He can hear too much from downstairs when he is. I pat the bed beside me where I’ve elected to sit, and he comes to sit next to me, looking at me for answers.

“George…”

“I don’t know, Ritchie. I can’t know. I wasn’t on the phone.”

“I know.” He says, hearing the worry in my voice, “I’m sorry.”

We talk about what we’re going to do for dinner tonight, but I don’t really hear anything. Nothing until I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Both Ringo and I sit to attention as Paul knocks softly on the door. When he comes in, the first thing that strikes me is his reddened, puffy eyes. I feel sick.

“Erm… I hate to sound cliché,” He tries to act in control, his voice solid and fake, “but I really don’t know how to say this.” The hardened sound, the mask in his voice breaks down and he lets a single tear stream down the tracks of others. “Eppy was… he died.”

Ringo clasps a ring-less hand over his lips. Tears form in his eyes straight away. I gulp down a lump in my throat hastily.

“Died?” I parrot.

“He… overdosed. That’s all John could tell me.”

What am I meant to say to that? I stare blankly at Paul. He can’t meet my gaze. He’s fiddling with his hands, crying tears into them. I look at Ringo. He’s sobbing. I feel as though I have to be strong for him. I clasp my arms around him, having him cry into my shoulder. I feel a hole in my chest, the lump rising again in my throat as though my heart were about to escape my body through my mouth. It’s broken, it’s shattered. My eyes start welling, but I disallow myself to cry. I extend an arm for Paul who comes and sits on the other side of me. He takes the other shoulder. I just don’t know what to do.

We sit, them two in tears, for a long time. Even when they stop crying, we sit there. I realise that we’re missing one, so I make sure that Paul is not still crying and I ask, “Is John alright?”

“He’s… he can’t talk about it. He can’t cry. You know what he’s like.” Several times, Paul almost descends into tears, but manages to overcome them, “He’s angry. Just really angry. I had to get away because… when his mum died, he wanted to punch… everything. I just… gave him his space.”

Bloody hell. I have Ringo to look after, a boy who will cry on my shoulder, have me spoon him for a while, won’t let me go for a few days. Pau has John, destructive, aggressive John. I feel as though I have to help him too. I don’t have time to cry.

“I’ll go and check if he’s ok.” I suggest, getting up onto my unsteady feet. My legs feel very weak. Paul looks as though he’s about to stop me, but he has no words to do so. He takes Ringo’s hand to replace me while I’m away. I mouth a thank you to him. Ringo needs some comfort.

And so does John.

I head downstairs with careful treads and peek into the living room where John had been before. The phone remains in tatters on the ground, but John is lying, curled up on the sofa.

“John?” I call to him. He doesn’t respond. “Are you ok?”

“Are you?” He hisses through strangled tears, “Because if you are, you’re a fucking heartless bastard.”

“Of course I’m not ok. How can I be? You just looked very shaken up earlier and Paul was worried about you.”

He winces. I dare to walk closer to him, standing at the foot end of the sofa. He’s covered his head with a pillow. His hands are wet and the fingertips white from gripping the pillow so hard. This is how I feel in my mind.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I try.

John groans, muffled by the pillow. “I can’t go through this again.” He murmurs, “I really can’t.”

“Again?” I repeat.

Finally, he sits up. He looks rough, really rough, so pale everywhere other than his bright red eyes and cheeks. “My mum. Don’t you remember? She decided to fuck off and now Eppy has and… fuck it hurts like hell, physically hurts.”

“Where does it hurt?” I feel as pathetic as a primary school teacher with that question.

John doesn’t buy it as a genuine question either, “Fucking everywhere you fucking…” His voice catches, he doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. Then he sees Paul wandering into the room.

“Ringo wants you, George.” He says, though he doesn’t look at me. He first doesn’t look at either of us until he realised that John is sitting up. It takes a moment for my legs to respond to my brain telling them to move. As I pass Paul, I touch his hand. His gaze follows me up the stairs. I think he’s worried about being with John at them moment. I’m worried about what state Ringo’s going to be in.

He’s sitting on the bed against the headboard. His hands are wiping tears from his eyes, but not as quick as their produced. Instead of going straight to him, I duck into the en suite and pull some of the loo roll off, bundling it in my hand. I then go out and dry Ringo’s tears for him, wiping up his soaked hands too.

“I… I…”

“Calm down, luv. Take your time. You don’t have to say anything.”

He wraps his arms around my neck and kisses me. I lie on his bent legs, my head on his knees while he holds me around my shoulders.

Like that, with minimal moving for a little more comfort, we fall asleep. It’s going to be a rough night.


	6. Paul

I jolt awake, feeling sick to my stomach. I swear I didn’t eat dinner last night, yet I feel as though I have enough undigested food waiting for me to move for it to surge up into my mouth. I wait for the feeling to subside by shuffling into a slightly more comfortable position away from John’s firm grip around me. He doesn’t stir, so I think I can manage to get up. My mouth’s dry, I need a drink.

It’s not even morning yet. Time tickles by at a snail’s pace. Then again, we all fell asleep pretty early. I think it was just gone 7 when George went back up to comfort Ringo.

I knew that John was my responsibility, that, no matter how afraid I was to deal with him, I couldn’t let George go off to do my work as a mated Omega. I gave Ringo a last hug, he needed it, then wandered back downstairs where I found George standing at the end of the sofa that John had been laying. John was sitting up when I walked in. George must’ve done something good. I told him that Ringo wanted him and watched him dart off upstairs.

As he passed me, he touched my hand. It made me want to burst out in tears again. I don’t know how to deal with this, never mind trying to comfort someone else. George seemed so good at this. I hated the lingering feeling of his touch reminding me that I was now alone, in front of John, who was silently sobbing to himself.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk.” I said from the doorway. John shook his head. He kicked back onto the sofa, lying face up this time with his legs draped over the far arm. I began to step towards him gingerly. It was as though John was a nervous horse I had to tame, by first not starling it. I decided to kneel beside the sofa, weaving my fingers around John’s hand. He was hiding his face with his other arm, strewn across his face. I saw his chest move up and down rhythmically as he breathed. I muttered a small prayer when I saw him breathing normally. Before, he couldn’t draw a single ounce of air into his lungs. His chest lay still for a long time, then, every so often, it would jut upwards, a sharp gasp could be heard, a wet gasp, and more tears. At least he wasn’t crying so much. I knew that tears were still slowly making their steam down his face, but it was better than before.

“I want him back.” I heard him muffle. I squeezed his hand tighter.

I was crying again, “I do too.” I bowed my head until it rested on John’s hip. For a while, my tears soaked into his swimming trunks. It was bright outside. I forget it was so early, because my world had darkened. Hardly 20 minutes before, I had been fucking about in the beautiful sun, laughing, joking.

I feel bad that I was having fun. You know, there’s no way I could’ve know, no way I could’ve been there, yet I hate myself for being so happy.

John and I didn’t talk for a long time. I wanted to. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what. Everything I’d thought about Eppy seemed pointless to say. We all knew how much he’d done for us. We all were feeling- still are feeling- lost without him. What the fuck will we do with the band now?

Before I fell asleep, curled up beside John, he murmured something in a dazed state. I think he was drifting off too. It was almost as though he was sleep talking. “There was so much I never said to him.”

I couldn’t reply, because I was sure I knew what he meant.

For a house that John owns, you’d expect there to be alcohol somewhere. I’m not calling him an alcoholic, not in any way. He’s just the type to have a bottle or can of anything stored away in the back of the fridge. Alas, no luck tonight. I pour myself a glass of ice cold water and light up a cigarette. It’s too hot inside, which isn’t helping with my churning stomach, so I open the back door into the garden to stand out in the night induced cold. My cigarette is the only light, embers in the darkness, save for the street lamps burning far behind me. Where I stand, I’m facing into an unending abyss, drawing in smoke to my lungs to satisfy that itch inside me that begs for a cigarette.

But there is no longer an itch there. There is a hole. Pain radiates around it. I don’t even feel the icy cold wind shooting past me, bearing in mind that I’m still shirtless, because I’m too numb for anything other than my aching chest.

Right now, I don’t feel strong enough to think of Eppy, but my mind cannot remove his image, even just for a moment. His smart face, his posh accent, his gentle eyes, the genuine smile that crept onto his lips. Tears threaten again, but I don’t stop thinking about him.

I was a terror for fucking about with Eppy. Because I knew he was gay, I thought I could bat my long eyelashes, ask for anything with a quiet promise of my attention, and he’d do anything for me. I was an idiot, of course, thinking that every person with a liking for men would fall at my feet. I’m a handsome guy, but love and crushes don’t work that way.

Really, I think I wanted Eppy to like me. Then I could say that I was a catch amongst men and women. But Eppy wasn’t attracted to me.

He didn’t ask me to Barcelona.

I can’t believe, when the man has just died, I still get a pang jealousy in thinking about that trip with John. I tell myself that it means nothing. John probably has some good memories of that holiday. None of us got holidays at the time. I, begrudgingly, tell myself to hope he did have a good time, that the trip holds some of the best memories he could ever have of our manager.

I’ll never forget the sweaty hotel rooms or nights at Hamburg where it was us five- John, George, Ringo, Eppy and myself. I’ll never forget the days we ran through hordes of fans together. I’ll cherish every instruction I remember him giving us. Even every disagreement, I’ll smile at, because we got through it all.

I’m bawling, I can’t stop myself. I suck in mouthfuls of water to counter the tears that have come out in their bucket loads. In this summer heat, I’ll dehydrate if I keep crying like I have been.

I drop the finished cigarette butt on the ground, but I can’t grind it out, because I’m not wearing any shoes. I drink the last of the water, then head back inside. John is still asleep on the sofa, eyes red, hair mussed, his shirt pulled apart now with a few buttons missing. I drop the glass into the kitchen sink which is full of dirty water from plates that had been dumped in there with food still on them. I dread to wash it up, but someone is going to have to eventually.

Well, I feel utterly lost. I’m not tired, I’m not wide awake, I feel sick and uncomfortable. I need a distraction. I pick up a pen and paper and flick on a lamp. I sit on our armchair opposite the sofa, curled up and hoping that the light and sound of me scrawling lyrics won’t wake him up.

I need to focus on music now, or else I will descend into depression.

I think I need to help everyone else to do the same as well. We don’t have Bri to take care of us now, so we need someone else. I wonder if that might have to be me.


	7. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue and scenes inspired by the movie 'The Hours and Times'

The warmth of another country’s summer. It’s not humid, it’s not sticky, it’s hot and comfortable. I can walk around in a t-shirt that doesn’t immediately stick to me. I haven’t been away in ages. It’s perfection.

Paul would love it here. I bet he’s pissed off to high heaven that he didn’t take the opportunity. I’m going to come home with a whole scrapbook of pictures of me bathing in sunlight, playing my harmonica on a tropical beach. Then, if he wasn’t jealous before, he’s going to fucking kill me, but it’s totally worth it.

Eppy has the camera. I insist he takes 10 or so pictures of me in the same place, doing a ton of random actions. He takes a load in quick succession so that it could act like a flip book.

It’s really weird seeing him all casual. He’s not the type for pairs of American style jeans and stuff like that, so his casual is a pair of very old looking suit trousers and a shirt that’s not buttoned all the way to the top. His hair is not perfectly slicked back as it usually is, nor is it properly combed. There’s no point when a gentle breeze messes it up every time we go out. That’s another thing I like about being here, so far, we have had wonderful sunny days complete with a breeze rustling through the trees, keeping us tourists, who are not used to such delicious heat, cool enough to keep us from complaining.

“You, John, are an evil man if you are going to run back to England to show these off to the boys.” Eppy criticises, but he’s laughing. He knows I’ll probably do that anyway, whether that makes me evil or not. I walk beside him, following a long stone wall that separates us from a huge grassy field. The sea laps away at the horizon not far away. A beach is close by. I fancy getting my shirt off on golden sands, if Eppy doesn’t mind having to see my disgusting, naked torso.

“What else would I do with them?” I reply, “Anyway, wasn’t it you who told me off for talking about the boys? Abide by your own stupid rules, Bri.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “Yes, but I only implemented the rule because you would not shut up about Paul.”

It’s true. I missed him just a little, “I’m over that now.” I lie. Ok, I miss him a lot. I really hope I don’t start my rut while I’m here or I might have to bend Eppy over his hotel room bed. Paul would kill me if I did such a thing.

“Oh, I believe you, John.” Eppy jests. I feel like shoving him, forgetting that he’s not Paul or George or Ringo. I’ve shove them at the smallest prompt. Why I don’t with Eppy, I guess it’s because he has this air about him, that he’s too posh for such little games.

He’s not too posh for profanity, though, “Fuck off, you bastard.”

He chuckles at that. “John, you know that I have no problem with you and Paul. I like that you two have found a part of yourselves in each other.” He says genuinely.

“You’re getting soft on me.” Of course, I can’t take his sappy words.

He shakes his head, “I’m serious. You both seem very happy when you’re together. And you work well together.”

Ok, now he’s making me grin. I do miss Paul. I can’t wait to get home. I mean, this trip is great, but I would’ve liked for Paul to have come as well. God, I want him bad.

Eppy and I have dinner at the hotel, then go upstairs. Neither of us are tired, so I set up a game of cards, lighting myself a cigarette and letting Eppy pour a couple of drinks. When he sits down, he holds his glass out to clink it with mine. I’ve accidently drunk half of the stuff already, but the effect is the same, so I knock the rim against his and smile.

“Here’s to us two queers.” I joke.

Eppy laughs lightly as he brings the glass to his lips. I start our game. We play for a little while, in giggles for no apparent reason, then Eppy wants to talk while we’re playing. He likes talking.

“So, Paul is your Omega? Officially?”

I look up from my cards. Eppy is still looking at his. I don’t think he wants to meet my eyes, because he’s embarrassed to pry. I lean in, “Oh yeah. It’s official, just not to everyone else.”

“I’m sorry you can’t be honest about the way that you are.”

I shrug, “I don’t mind as long as I can have Paulie any which way I feel like it.” Eppy shuffles uncomfortably, “What? Aren’t yeh used to a bit of dirty talk, Eppy? Never had a guy who said dirty little things into your ear?”

“John…” He warns. I’ve overstepped.

I also don’t care.

“Why have you shut up all of a sudden?” I query, deadly serious now. I don’t like things getting serious.

“Because…” He huffs, “I’m worried what I’ll say.”

“Just say.” I insist, looking back down at my cards, “I don’t give a fuck, whatever.”

There’s a long silence. Eppy opens and closes his mouth several times, I hear him do it. I avoid eye contact to make him feel better about talking to me. I can come across as a bit hostile and intense. I don’t mean to, that’s why I’m trying not to come off as that right now. But still Eppy doesn’t talk.

“Is there something about Paul?” I try, then smile and jeer, “Do you fancy him?”

“No, John. It’s not about him.” He replies all too quickly.

“Then who is it about?” He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even continue the game. He peers over his shoulder as though he’s listening to the angel or devil sitting there. One is probably telling him to talk, the other telling him to shut up. I bring his attention back to me by slamming my cards onto the table. His eyes meet mine.

“John, I thought you were well aware of my feelings for you. I think you’re very attractive. I wanted to shut up in case I made out as though I didn’t want Paul and you together.”

My lips round into an o shape, my breath coming out in one long hiss. I hadn’t been entirely aware of his ‘crush’ on me, but I don’t want to seem shocked. Too shocked anyway.

“Look, I think you’re a great guy, Eppy, but I don’t really want to have it off with you.”

Eppy nods, looking away from me, then he looks back, meeting my gaze, a new wave of confidence running over him, “Then a blow job. It’ll mean nothing.”

I’m not sure how to respond. It takes a moment for me to formulate everything in my mind. What I wouldn’t give to have Paulie here to suck off, and it’s not great having a guy practically begging to have me fuck him, but I know I can’t. I’m also pretty sure Eppy will regret it, after all that soppy shit about liking me and Paul together, “You’re not that kind of guy.” I remind him.

He leans back in his chair, “No, I know I’m not. I wouldn’t want you to fuck up your relationship with Paul, I really wouldn’t, but anything seems worth a shot when you’re getting none.”

I sympathise. It’s been almost a week since I’ve had Paul. That’s why this situation is a… a situation. I decide it’s time for bed, getting up and walking towards my room. Eppy begins to clear the cards away.

I feel bad, poor guy. Getting none, getting rejected. I stop short of passing him by and stand right next to him so that, when he stops leaning across the table to pile up the cards in his hand, he’s practically touching me.

“One kiss.” I say, “I’ll give you something to touch yourself to in bed. What do you say?” I don’t actually give him a chance to answer. I slide to my knees, put my hands on each of the arms of the chair he sits on and I kiss him.

He even tastes posh. I bet he’s an Omega, hiding behind his stuck-up smartness and leadership control. A poor Omega who probably takes heat suppressants, who has probably not had a good knotting for a hell of a long time. We’re both lonely, both haven’t had sex in too long- granted his luck may have been years, whereas my last was last week. I sort of want to have him, to satisfy that ache for Paulie. He isn’t as strong as Paul, he doesn’t kiss with the passion that Paulie does, then again, Eppy doesn’t love me. He likes me, he has a crush on me or whatever he wants to call it. I’ve also caught him off guard.

But he feels fucking amazing in that I have not touched another person like this in a week. I linger too long with my lips over his. My hands begin wandering downwards. It’s a bad idea, but I can’t think straight. Queers usually can’t think _straight_. I’m actually an idiot….

Eppy pulls away a short while later. “John, this is gone too far. You have Paul.”

I sit back on my knees, “I know, I know.”

But Eppy isn’t acting how he usually does. He stares at me intensely, “You have Paul. You only have Paul now. She’s gone, I’m gone, Paul’s it now. Look after him, John.”

Don’t fucking do this to me! My eyes shoot open, the image of Eppy still there, still in front of me until I blink a few times. Don’t haunt me! I don’t have the fucking time or strength to be haunted.

Paul is awake already, sitting on the armchair opposite me. He’s writing on a sheet of paper, probably song lyrics. While I don’t want to go back to sleep, I don’t want to be awake. I watch Paul until my eyes get heavy. Sleep drags me away again.


	8. Ringo

One minute, I’m curled up, sleeping at the very top of a bed with George curled around my legs.

The next, I think I’m awake, but it feels like a nightmare. Maybe I just dreamed that Eppy died.

I’ve never seen John in such a state, I don’t think I’ve ever seen George cry. Then again, I didn’t really see anything after Paul wandered into the room George and I had hidden in and told us that our manager, one of our closest friends, was dead. It could just be an elaborate fantasy my mind conjured up in some kind of fear that we were slipping away from Eppy, you know, in my subconscious, that’s probably what I thought. That’s how some dreams are made, right? Your subconscious is trying to tell you something that you’re not seeing properly.

It’s all just wishful thinking. The real fantasy is that which I’ve just made up, hoping that it’s a dream.

It’s true, it's all a horrible reality. I’m crying again, hoping that I might finally wake up, find myself back at home with George, lying in our bed the previous night. Nothing happens. I’m still facing the same four walls, burying my head in the same duvet that has soaked up plenty of my tears in the last few hours. Nothing has changed except George has fallen off my legs to coil up around them. He wakes with a jolt.

“Richie?” His voice is gravelly and thick with pain blocking his throat.

“I’m sorry, George,” I say when I’m not drawing in shallow breathes between tears, “I can’t stop…”

He places his hands either side of my head, drying my tears with his thumbs. Through my welled eyes, he shakes and distorts, but his hands are still, holding me. I reach up to hold him too. He’s wearing my rings. I knew my hands felt a little lighter than usual. When I can see a bit clearer, I see red marks on his skin where he’d fallen asleep lying on the rings. I used to do that. Sometimes I still do, if I forget to take them off.

“Don’t apologise.” He tells me, almost as a command, “You can cry all you like, ok?”

I nod, feeling his hands on my cheeks, remaining there as I move. He presses a kiss on my forehead.

We’re silent. It’s so hard to talk about something like this. If I have any idea what I want to say, I start crying so hard that I can’t form a single sentence. Otherwise, there are thoughts lingering in my mind that refuse to be said. I guess there is no point in saying them. They’re just memories. Things I wish I’d said to him. The persistent voice reminding me that I will never see Eppy again, I’ll never laugh with him or talk to him. I’ll never feel his gentle, rare, fond touch. I’ll never get his fashion advice. That thought makes me giggle out loud.

“What?” George asks, half smiling himself. It must be nice to see a face that isn’t drenched in depression. He’s lying beside me now, curled up like a cat on the pillows.

“I’m just… I’m going to look shit for the rest of my life.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Eppy won’t be here to tell me what suit I need to wear. Without him, our fashion sense is going to go downhill.”

We laugh together. We laugh hard. I guess, after all that crying, torturing ourselves in sadness, we need to laugh. I just hope Paul and John don’t hear us. We probably sound completely insane.

“Did you see our Sgt Pepper’s outfits?” George chuckles, “Our fashion sense is non-existent anymore anyway.”

We laugh some more. It dies down after a while until it’s just faded smiles on our rough-looking faces. I put a hand on George’s chest and he covers it with his.

“I don’t really know what we’re going to do now.” I say. This is not something any of us are going to get over with any ease, but it’s the first time that we’ve all got each other to help. We’re all going through the same thing, which might bring us even closer. I really hope so.

Also, I feel bad that I’m off-loading all my pain onto George. He manages to stay strong, manages to choke back tears, but he’s struggling just as much as any of us. At least I have Paul I can talk to too. Or John, if he’ll ever be ok to talk. I wonder how John is now. He’s frightening when he’s sad. Never mind when he’s angry, he’s worse when he’s upset. I wonder how Paul is as well. I wonder if they’re both sleeping downstairs. There isn’t a sound coming from down there. They might be sleeping, like we have been. I bet all the emotional shit has weighed us all down to physical fatigue.

 “I don’t know either.” George pipes up. I half expected him to have fallen back to sleep already. He really is like a cat, catnapping anywhere big enough to lie his long body on. And, when he wants me to stroke his hair or kiss him, he jokingly nuzzles me. “But we can’t just stop.”

“Stop?”

“Yeah, stop. We can’t mope around for the rest of our lives. Eppy would’ve had a right go if he found us all moping instead of planning our next song or heading out for interviews or whatever he had planned. We can cry, sure, and we can morn the fact that he’s gone, but we will have to get back to work at some point, even if it’s just so the ghost Eppy won’t shout at us from the beyond.”

He’s joking, but tears threaten as though I haven’t cried enough. I turn my head away. I haven’t seen George cry properly once. I don’t want him to watch me, for the hundredth time tonight.

Yeah, it is still night, I think. It’s pretty dark. I wonder what time it is.

The clock says 11. Morning hasn’t turned up yet.

I’m not looking forward to tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the first day back to the studio. Or seeing Eppy’s face in the newspapers, on tv, his name on every radio DJ’s lips. We probably won’t even be able to pay our respects to him at his funeral, because there will always be our fans and the press following us no matter where we go. Of course, we want what’s best for his family and what’s best is if we stay away.

 


	9. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story will actually progress in the next chapter. I feel like I've been stuck on the same little bit for too long.  
> So, sorry if that's how it seems.

“This way.” We follow Eppy as he hurries out the back door of some gig we had landed. Fans are hot on our tails. How the hell did they get out this back way? They would’ve had to rush the stage, filed through the tiny wings either side and piled through the tight back corridors so that they could follow us. And so closely! They must’ve literally trailed us as soon as we’d disappeared into the left wing.

Eppy’s voice is far away, but I can see him. He’s wearing a suit that similar to ours. He looks as though he could be a part of the group, the posh Liverpudlian one, if ever there were space in our little band. Hu, that would be funny. Me the quiet one, John the smart one, Paul the cute one, Ringo the funny one and Brian the posh one.

In my thoughts, I almost lose sight of him, but he’s there, his serious expression hardening as though I’m not running fast enough. Where the fuck are we going? I’m sure there’s meant to be a road around here.

“Eppy! Where’s the car?” I yell at him.

Then he’s actually gone. His image has melted away. The boys behind me start calling for him, asking why I’ve slowed down as they catch up to me.

“I don’t know where we’re going.” I explain. They look all which ways for Eppy. They look back, they look to either of the sides, they look in front. We see nothing but the long corridor between two buildings. I guess we have to keep plodding forward.

“Boys!” Eppy’s voice echoes around us. We try to work out where it’s coming from. “This way. Come on!” He sounds as though he’s getting frustrated at us.

I see something at the end of the alleyway. It looks like a person. I tap John’s shoulder and alert him to it. We all assume it’s Eppy. We begin to run that way, the fans gaining on us.

The only problem with that is, we seem to be heading straight into another throng of screaming girls. And we can’t stop. They’re coming from everywhere. They aren’t even real fans, they’re just people, angry people. Not just girls, genderless, emotionless beings heading straight for us. They’re everywhere. The buildings to our left and right morph into them. They encompass us, splitting us up, dragging us away. All the while I’m screaming two names.

“Ringo!” Or “Eppy!”

Like I said, it’s going to be a rough night. I wake up, Ringo snoring next to me the way he always does, and my body instantly tells me I need to get up. This is the first time I’ve been alone since this whole thing happened.

This _thing,_ my mind calls it. The death of a friend, merely a thing. I’ve been downplaying it from the start. That’s what causes me to sit up and dart for the bathroom. My mind is telling me that there is something I’m not dealing with that I really need to start looking at.

I look at myself in the mirror. My hair is messy, my clothes are creased. Ringo’s rings have made imprints in my chest, my side and my face. I run my fingers over the small, red indents while watching my refection. My two sets of eyes stay firmly locked onto one another, my two sets of hands running down my pale body. My stomach churns. I think I’m going to be sick.

My legs give way and, before anything else has registered, the cold, tiled floor smacks my bare calves. I’m lingering next to the toilet, ready for it to catch what little food remains in my body, but I don’t retch. My throat squeezes, my eyes fill with tears. Fuck! I’m crying. I’m bawling into my hands, taking the shallowest of breathes that my lungs will allow. My face burns, my lungs burn, the base of my palms that hit the floor burn, my legs burn. This is worse than being sick, because, had I emptied the content of my stomach, I would at least feel better once my body had gotten rid of it. Right now, I feel nothing. In all my pain, I’m numb.

I haven’t thought of this. I didn’t consider what kind of monstrous pain I was putting myself through when trying to stay calm.

My friend just fucking died and I thought I could keep it cool? Am I an idiot. It hurts now, because all those tears I choked away, forced back into my eyes have merely been saved up.

They wrack me in pain that I’ve no idea how to deal with. This is how John felt. I know it. He looked exactly how I look now. He was inconsolable, wet with tears, shaken until words failed him. I cannot even think to speak. He has never been good with emotions, not sadness, he never talks about how he is. I’m as bad as that. I’m ‘the quiet one.’ I don’t even talk to Ringo the way I should. I should’ve probably let him know how shit I feel too, instead of hiding it all away, for my own peace of mind. Then it may not have hurt so bad when I cry.

But I couldn’t break down when Ringo had already. If he didn’t have me holding him up, what else does he have to fall back on?

This is selfish. I’m thinking of my bloody relationship with Ringo. At least that will continue. Eppy’s life has ended, dramatically, tragically, suddenly. I’m worrying about petty little problems.

I miss him so much and it hasn’t even been a day without him. We weren’t meant to see him until we headed back into the studio. But his absence in his world has shaken every bit of it. I feel as though I should’ve seen him. Funny the things that death will put into your mind.

I sob and sob until my eyes are red raw, sore and heavy. This grieving business is torturously hard work. I can’t fall asleep in the bathroom, or else, when Ringo wakes up, he’ll wonder where I’ve gone, he’ll ask if I’m alright.

And yeah, I’m going to keep this up, the tough look, the logical, reasoned outer shell I’ve created. No matter how much I condemn it, I know of no other way to be around my Alpha. He looks after me in most situations, but he needs looking after just as much.

I drag myself up off the floor, splash my face with shiver-inducingly cold water, before walking back into the dark bedroom. Ringo had flopped over onto his side. He snores loudly still, unaware of my breakdown. Good.

I crawl back onto the bed, taking up position beneath his legs. It’s still very warm. The bed covers serve no purpose other than extra padding over the mattress. The pillows also prove pointless as I have Ringo to cuddle instead. His body heat may be a little too overwhelming, but I don’t care. I’m not going back to sleep and I need him right now.

Eppy actually knew about me and Ringo before we even got together. He wasn’t just a handsome face behind the scenes, you know, he was a very smart man. Of course, there was his management skills, his knowledge and ability to sell us, but he also knew us all quite well. He quietly observed us, learning what we were like, how to deal with us. He got John down first, I think. He allowed John to present himself as the leader, then went on from there.

But he noticed how Ringo cared for me. He noticed the small things, how close we became while John and Paul were off writing songs and all they did. He told me that he had a suspicion long before the trip when I was in heat. He saw how I took to Ringo, how I looked after him, even though he was the oldest member of the group.

When we revealed to him that we were mated- he was well aware of Ringo being an Alpha- he sort of shrugged the relationship off as ‘bound to happen.’ That made me smile so wide that my mouth was stuck in that position until I went to sleep. Ringo seemed the same, with his gorgeous lips- that are, if you ask me, in the running for best lips in the Beatles against Paul- grinning at me. What Eppy was more surprised about was my being an Omega. He didn’t expect it. I always wanted to ask him if he was, because I had a sneaking suspicion that he’d hidden it like me. With all those pills he took, it’s not too much of a stretch to think that he had a stash of heat suppressants somewhere.

I shiver when I think of pills. I try and move away from that thought.

I, instead, try to recall all of my favourite times with Eppy. It makes me feel sad, but it’s better than feeling shit about not seeing him again. Its way better than that. The latter made me feel physically sick.

While I’m away in a memory of the Cavern Club, conversing with Eppy by the side of the stage, I hear a whimper come from above me. I stay still. It’s Ringo, softly crying in his sleep.

“Richie?” I say, shaking myself up.

“I’m sorry, George, I can’t stop…”


	10. John

Paul tells us all to group in the living room. He wants to talk to all of us. I’m not in the mood to talk, at all. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t care. I declare it too early no matter if it’s lunchtime already or if the other lot have been up for hours. I have not opened my eyes nor moved a single bone in my body since I last was able to get to sleep. I have not bothered to put on or remove items of clothing that I fell asleep in. I’m tired still, so I really don’t want to be sitting up on the sofa, surrounded my friends who all look as rough as I feel, like this is some group therapy session. This is meant to be John’s sleeping session. No one seems to have any consideration for it.  

Ringo is sitting in the armchair that Paul had been writing a song in last night. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt that’s half tucked into the pair of flared jeans hanging at his waist. His whole demeanor is off. He’s not sitting how he usually does. He usually has his legs spread open as though inviting someone in, and his arms usually rest wide too as he reclines back. He is, right now, closed and tense. He has George sitting on his closed lap, wrapping his arms around the thinner man and hugging him so close it’s like a kid with his teddy bear. George looks thoroughly uncomfortable. Not because he’s on Ringo’s lap, he just doesn’t want to be here. That makes two of us.  

“So, I was thinking of what we could do, since we probably won’t be able to go to Bri’s funeral.” Paul speaks so matter-of-factly, it makes my blood run cold. “I thought we could send some flowers and… well, this may seem a bit cheesy or whatever but we could each write a note with a goodbye message on it, tie it around the flower and have someone put it on his…” His voice trails off for a moment, “...grave.”

I scoff, audibly. Everyone’s eyes shoot over to me. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to write some kind of ‘goodbye’ message. I just don’t. It’s hard enough for me to think that Bri is gone, but to say goodbye, to what? His grave? Pointless. 

And, well, I don’t want anyone reading what I’d put down. If I were to write a note of farewell, anyone with the curiosity or carelessness to have a look… I’d rather send up my prayers. 

“John?” Paul hisses, almost as a warning. I can’t meet his eyes.

“Cheesy bullshit.” I reply. I feel as though I’m going to cry again. I dare not look in any direction where my friends might see my welled eyes. 

Paul speaks with gritted teeth, “John, I know you’re upset about this and you don’t usually deal with situations that well…”

Fuck him. “I don’t deal with situations well? Oh because you lot are doing so good.” Tears clog my throat, yet I continue with a little cautiousness, “Crying and crying, then writing nice, little, flowery messages about how much you love Bri and want him back, that he’s never going to read, because he’s…”

Well, I’ve started Ringo off. George gives me a dirty look as he buries his Alpha’s head in his chest. I roll my glossy eyes. 

“Serious, what’s wrong with you?” Paul yells. He darts over to put a hand on Ringo’s shoulder. It’s not my fault that he’s sensitive. 

“I just don’t see how writing something like this would help anything.” I shrug. 

Paul and George ignore me for a while. It gives me a chance to stop tearing up. When they’re not looking, I wipe my eyes with a very gentle touch so that they don’t get red and style it out by fixing my hair. I like the way my hair is at the moment. It’s easier to take care of. It’s not all heavy and long. It’s cropped, looks good messy or combed. 

“I would really like to do that.” Ringo’s unusually small voice peeks out from behind George. It’s like he’s directing the comment to me. 

“The letter thing?”

“Yeah. I think it would… I’d feel better if I got it all down on paper.”

“Then we’ll do it.” George promises, running his finger up Ringo’s cheek to catch the stream of tears. Paul joins in the ‘John hate club’ by giving me a look of ‘told you so.’ I sigh.

“Yeah, we can do it. And if someone wants to be a selfish little dick, he doesn’t have to do it.”

“Selfish?” I parrot under my breath. How am I being selfish?

The trio of friends go off to find some kind of breakfast. I get several glances from each one. Only Ringo’s is a mildly acceptable one. When the other’s don’t see, he gestures for me to follow. I’m sorry Ringo, Luv, but fuck hanging out with a group of people that have no idea what I’m going through. 

In seeing that I’m on my own, I decide to go and get dressed. I can feel that the shitty chemical water from the pool has dried on my skin, making my legs feel sticky and dehydrated. I need a shower. 

_ Eppy, I really do… _

_ Eppy, I should’ve said a lot of other things to you… _

_ Eppy, you were… _

It’s a stupid idea, this note thing- if I haven’t made my opinion very clear about it. All of our notes would all say the same thing: You were the best, we’d be nothing without you, we miss you. I’m glad I don’t have to be a part of it. 

I stand under the hot spray of the shower, lathering up my hair with shampoo. I close my eyes and let the water run right over my face. It seems to block out everything, all the input the world constantly gives me, especially when it falls over my ears, taking away my hearing, making everything muffled. God, I could stay in here all day. Fuck writing little, pathetic notes to make us feel better by saying goodbye, I like the idea of standing in the shower, sorting my thoughts out without anything distracting me. My first thoughts are along the lines of profanity directed at Paul. He’s made me so angry. Then I’m swearing at myself. I’m such an emotional wimp. I really upset Ringo. I’m a fucking dick, (my mind neglects to accept that Paul said exactly the same thing a minute ago, and that he might be quite right.)

Then I’m angry at Eppy. I can’t believe myself, but I am angry at him. How dare me leave me. How dare he go without saying goodbye. How dare he leave us all to fend for ourselves. 

How dare he accept that I was never going to tell him how I feel about him and die before I have the chance to pluck up the courage to do so. 

I get out the shower after scrubbing my skin almost red raw. Now the rest of my body knows how my eyes feel. I dress in a crappy, old, button-up shirt whose sleeves are already rolled up above the elbows. I don’t bother doing many of the buttons. It seems that all my shirt these days have ruffles down the front or floral patterns dancing over it. This one is bright purple. The trousers I pull on are equally as… psychedelic. They’re dark green with brighter shades running down the sides. Boy has this year been a colourful one. 

I’m about to head downstairs, when I notice a pad of paper on the table by Paul and my undisturbed bed. We have these everywhere- yet the hits get written on the back of greeting cards or serviettes taken from restaurants- and this one is void of writing so far. I guess I bought it recently and forgot to use it. Having organised my brain, there’s a few things I want to write down, nothing like one of those notes that Paul was suggesting we write, just something to get off my chest so my mind doesn’t feel so messy. Sitting on our bed, I cross one leg over the other as a desk and scrawl;

_ I don’t want to have to say goodbye to someone else in my life, so I’m not going to say goodbye to you. I’m going to  _ ~~_ tell you _ ~~ _ write some things that I  _ _~~should’ve said when you were aliv~~ e _ _ want you to know. It’s stupid, because I should’ve said them and I waited too long and now I’m…  _

Words fail me. I throw the notepad back where it was, lying the pen I was using on the top. I want to go and see how everyone is downstairs, perhaps apologise. Before I leave, though, I scrawl one last thing.

_ I know what you wanted from me and I know that I  _ ~~_ bullied _ ~~ _  fucked around with you because of who you were, but please know that I never meant anything. In fact, I... _

Downstairs, Ringo and Paul are sitting up at the dining table with plates of food in front of them. Neither has eaten much at all. George is slaving over the hot stove. Of course. It’s always George. I meet Paul’s gaze, warily, but he doesn’t look pissed off. He beckons me over. As I sit, George places a glass of juice by my side. I kind of feel like we’re one strange family. 

“I’m sorry.” I say, with a soft, apologetic smile. 

“It’s ok. We know you don’t mean it.” Ringo replies.

“No, I really don’t. I mean, I don’t like the note idea, but it’s not stupid. If it helps you, that’s really important.” Paul reaches over to hold my hand. “I just… don’t know how to deal with this.”

“Try the writing idea. You might find it helps.” Paul insists. I nod. I don’t know if I’ll actually do it yet, but I want to keep the peace in the room at the moment. 

George peers over his shoulder, “Hungry, John?”

“Yeah.”

He places in front of me, with the suave precision of a waiter, a fry up. Well, he knows how to treat us when we’re feeling like shit. 


	11. Paul

We’re all staying very close to one another today. George and Ringo don’t want to go home and, after John’s minor outburst, he’s happier to spend the day with us, even if he does make snide comments when we talk about my note idea for Eppy’s funeral.

Us all wanting to stay as a group reminds me of the start of the summer. We’d finished Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, we were planning something of a holiday for later in the month, but that never happened. We ended up straight back in the studio recording ‘All you need is love.’ After a sweltering session in there, we all were heading back here in John’s car and, on the radio, one of our songs blasted through the speakers.

When we’re happy, sad, tired or hyper, we love spending time together. For a while, none of us wanted to be the Beatles anymore, but we certainly did not want to stop being… us, Paul, John, George and Ringo.

We’ve had a lot of calls. George Martin called to see how we were. Alistair made a quick call too. I asked if he knew much about funeral plans and what not. He said that he’d heard nothing much and would call again when he did. I didn’t want to ask anything else, but I have so many questions. Boy do I miss Eppy. He used to make sure we knew everything. Now, at his death, we all feel as though we’re stumbling forward without his structured, strict instructions.

We haven’t really been doing anything. We avoid watching the TV, because there will no doubt be the news on one of the channels and none of us can bear to hear reporters talk about such a difficult situation. Of course, we don’t have much interest in frolicking out in the bright summer sun out by the pool. We sort of sit, all in the same room, but do our own things, get lost in our own minds.

I go and get properly dressed, realising that I’ve been wandering around shirtless and in my pair of swimming trunks. I feel too exposed, so I put on a long-sleeved, white shirt and a pair of smart trousers.

What else is there to do?

I have a little time away from everyone else and there’s a notebook on the bedside table. I might as well have a good go at writing my note. It’ll be difficult, I’ve no idea what I’m going to say other than I miss him, and thank you, but perhaps that’s all that needs to be said. John is right in that Eppy is dead now, there’s nothing we can do about it and not much we can tell him that’ll get resolved, because he’s not going to read it. However, it makes me feel better seeing this written down and organised.

I pick up the pad of paper that had a pen across it and open it to the first page.

Oh… there’s writing on it already. It’s not a song, it’s not written in verse. It hasn’t got a title or name. It’s John’s handwriting. I bet it’s something he doesn’t want me to read. Dutifully, I turn the page without looking.

But my eyes catch the end few lines. Oh, I feel really bad because I’m tempted to look. My mind tries to fill in the blanks of what I saw:

_…Wanted from me and… I fucked around… who you were… In fact, I..._

Ok, fine, a small look. Maybe it was a note for me. Yeah, it might be. I flick over the corner back onto the written page where John’s scrawl is dotted with drops of some kind of liquid. He had a shower a little while ago. Perhaps he wrote this when he got out the shower.

It looks like it’s a note to Eppy. While I’m surprised he wrote it after all the shit he gave us, my mind is distracted by what he says. ‘I know what you wanted from me’ ‘I should’ve said them and I waited too long and now I’m…’ The lack of finished thoughts unsettles me. He stops just before he says anything important. Why can’t he write them down? What is he trying to hide?

I do feel sort of bad that jealousy pools in my stomach again, but I can’t help it. Eppy was a great guy, but something bothered me about him and John. That Barcelona trip. John when he came home. He was on me so quickly I couldn’t think straight and when I looked back on it, something about it really made my head spin.

He arrived back home with a light tan. He was looking very handsome. He had tons of pictures he wanted to show me and he made typical John comments about every single one. Oh, he’d been there, done this. Eppy had gotten off with some hot Spanish guy who John had helped seek out. It was all one big boast because he got to go on holiday while us three remaining band members moped about back in Liverpool. I whined that I wished I had gone. He seemed to like when I did. He’d tell me about every single place the two had gone to.

Then, when John and I were alone, he kissed me passionately, spending ages on my lips, rather than using my mouth as a distraction while he removed my clothes. I thought it was odd, to spend so much time romancing me rather than fucking me. Then his words whispered like a sweet nothing in my ear, “Now this was what I wanted,” made me wonder ‘instead of what?’ but I’d missed him too much to care. It was like going into heat as soon as I saw him. He didn’t let me go for the entire night.

Well, I guess I didn’t think it too strange until a week or two after when it became apparent that John was avoiding our manager. Not in the sense that he’d dart into the other room or shield his eyes from the man. No, he just stopped talking to him at great length. He stopped calling him ‘queer Jew’ or all the other ‘terms of _endearment’_ he had so lovingly coined for Eppy. He stopped messing around with him about anything to do with liking men. I sort of assumed he’d grown out of it. Perhaps the Barcelona trip had made him a little more sensitive to matters such as this.

But that wasn’t like John. It was becoming more and more obvious that he was dodging Eppy. He didn’t do more and more things that made us believe it, it was just the fact that he stuck with the ‘clean’ version of talking to Eppy, the more professional way. I think it was George who pointed it out to me.

“John’s laid off Eppy a bit, hasn’t he?”

“Maybe it was that trip away.”

“Are you worried?”

What cause did I have to be worried? I wanted to shrug it off and joke with George that maybe John had finally gotten some, but it lingered in my mind that, well, maybe he actually had.

Let’s just say, my paranoid brain never got passed the idea that John may have slept with Eppy. It was just a tiny speculation that came from nowhere, but it stuck. Eppy had expressed an interest in John that he claimed was purely platonic. Unfortunately, I had it in my mind that it’s barely a step from there to having romantic feelings for someone. I mean, look at me and John. We were just friends way back when. Then I feel in love with him.

Eh, my overly paranoid mind.

I can’t write a letter to Eppy now, with my suspicions aroused once more. I need to clear this up with John, to find out what actually happened.

I walk into the living room where everything is quiet. Ringo is filing through our black box of 7” records, sitting on a dining room chair right next to the record player. George is sitting on the cool, wooden floor by Ringo. Boy has it heat up today. He’s probably quite happy, cooling his legs down on the ground. George is one of those who must keep his body temperature at a comfortable level or else he gets very grumpy. Never talk to him (or me, in fact) about filming ‘Help!’ in Austria. We may have been so high that the whole thing was a blur, but fuck do we remember being really fucking cold. We both preferred filming in the Bahamas. It wasn’t too cold, nor too hot. We lounged around in t-shirts by golden beaches. Ah the life of rock stars.

He also has a thing for sitting, cross-legged on the floor. He looks very loyal, sitting beneath Ringo like that. He peers up every so often to show a single to his Alpha. He has his own small pile between his legs. They look quite… genuine, at the moment.

John, on the other hand, slumps on the same part of the sofa he’d only moved from to shower and eat breakfast. Since I don’t want to disturb Ringo and George, I hiss at John, waving my hand at him. The dining room may not be that far away from where the living room begins, but It’s far enough for them to remain oblivious as I flag down my own Alpha. Besides, George and Ringo are talking, they’re too busy to take much notice of me.

When John sees me, he sighs as he drags himself up. George turns his head to see us, but thinks nothing of it. He smiles at me before kneeling up to help Ringo put on a track.

“What?” John snaps as I drag him upstairs.

“I want to ask you something.”

“You couldn’t do it down there?”

“Well, if you’re gonna get pissed off at me, I’d rather we leave them two alone. They’ve got enough trouble right now.”

“And you think I don’t?” Honestly, there is no gauging John.

“Look,” I sigh, “I’m going to ask you something personal, and I want you to be honest with me, which I doubt you’d do if you were with all three of us.” He doesn’t look impressed. I try to level with him. I sit back on the edge of the bed where the notepad is, open on his note. I place it on my lap. Instantly, his eyes widen and jaw hardens. “I know I shouldn’t have have read it.”

“Damn fucking right, Paulie.”

“But I really have to ask you, because it’s been…” My words are cut off. My throat is clogging. Fuck! I’m not going to cry. Have I not cried enough, “…killing me for years.”

John knows what’s coming. He looks away from me. I shake my head apologetically.

“Did you sleep with Eppy?”

“The man is dead and that’s all you care about?” John criticises.

I shake my head faster, “Of course that’s not all I care about! I know that Eppy is dead, I miss him like hell.” I lose my rag in an instant, my temper not frayed, but torn down the middle, “You are not the only one going through this, John! You weren’t the only one going through it when your mum died. You weren’t the only one who was friends with Stu…” I have not mentioned Stuart Stutcliff in ages. Nor has John. He looks even more distraught when I do, “… and you’re not the only one going through this, so please stop treating me like I don’t understand how you feel. It’s a fucking, rotten, grotty, stone cold drag and I don’t know how to deal with it, especially when I see you so cut up about it too.”

John goes to walk out, but I leap up and grasp his wrist. As he turns, through streaming tears, I kiss him. He tastes the way he always does, he feels the way he always does, but he’s holding back and it’s strange to taste him, mixed with the saltiness of tears running between our lips. I pull back after a moment, but I do not let go of him, nor do I step back too far.

“John, I’m so afraid. I don’t know what we’re going to do, I don’t know who’s going to help us, I have no idea what’s going to happen and now I’ve just got something else to worry about hanging over my head. Please... because I see you crying over him now and I wonder if you love him,” He drags away, so I panic, hastily speaking so quick my brain can’t catch up, “If you liked him, I wouldn’t blame you, I just can’t stop thinking about it. Please John! Please!”

He steps back around to face me, calmly, but his face tells a different story than his actions. He’s crying. “Alpha.” He corrects, “Get that right, then calm down and I’ll tell you, alright.”

It takes a while for me to get my breathing back to normal. Eppy’s death has played havoc with my reactions. I’m vulnerable and afraid and can’t think anything through quick enough to have a democratic conversation with someone who is having a go at me. We sit on the bed, John has pulled my legs over one of his thighs so mine dangle between his. He holds my head to his shoulder until I’ve calmed down.

“Are you ready to listen now?” He asks. His tears haven’t gone. He sounds broken, like he’s sung twist and shout one too many times.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Alpha.”


	12. Ringo

I remove a 7” record from its flimsy casing and pull up the lid of the record player. Impaling the small black disc on the stand, I lift the needle arm and place it at the starting groove so that a Buddy Holly song plays softly through the speakers. George, as he’s closest, turns up the volume.

Under the sound of Buddy’s tune, I look down at George and say, “How are you?”

He looks up at me as though he’s confused by the question.  “Hu? Me?” He mutters.

“Who else would I be talking to?”

Paul and John have gone upstairs. It’s the first time today that its just me and George and I have yet to see George in any other state than neutral. I’m worried about him, honestly. I mean, its normal to cry and so far, he has shed only a few tears. Even John, the self-proclaimed master of not getting emotional (which we debate as to whether he should hold that title) cried.

“I’m alright.” He answers in a default tone.

I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes, luv.” He idly sings a line or two from the song while sifting through the small pile of singles in his lap. His long legs are folded over one another, the records lying on his calves.

I feel bad because we’re not doing anything. I half expect Paul to bound down the stairs and insist that we go to EMI to record a song or something. But I couldn’t stand seeing the studio at the moment. Just the thought of it, empty and lonely on a street we would rarely walk without our manager, makes me shuffle in my seat.

I place a hand on the back of George’s neck. Every small, gentle touch makes me feel just a little better. He bows his head so that my hand curves against the scruff of his neck. I rub the delicate flesh there.

“What about you?” He inquires, dropping the records in his hands and resting his palms on either of his thin thighs.

“I’m… better.” I breathe. Is that bad to say? Should I be better? Should I not still be crying into my pillow up in my room. I could, if I really wanted to, but I’m happier quietly sitting listening to music.

They say that if you’re in a bad mood, you should listen to happy music because it’ll make you feel better. I’m not sure that we have enough records to soothe the sick feeling in my chest every time I think of doing something other than sitting around today, but the stuff that we have seem to be a good start

“Good.” George concludes.

A minute later, the phone rings and he goes to pick it up.

I’m left alone, the sound of static loudly buzzing as I pick another song and place it on the player. I twirl one of my rings around so that the jewelled side faces down.

Once, Eppy and I were talking across his dining table in his house. It must’ve been in the winter, because it wasn’t that late, but it was pitch black outside. The windows all looked as though they had black paper stuck to them or blackout blinds covering them. The sky was so dark and covered in a layer of thick storm clouds. We’ll have rain the next day or during the early hours of the morning, I remember thinking.

But it wasn’t a particularly cold evening. Eppy kept his house toasty and the food warmed my stomach. I don’t remember why we were alone, I don’t know where everyone else was. Perhaps someone else was their too. Paul, maybe. Either way, there was a time when we sat across from one another completely alone when Eppy asked me about George.

“You two are very close now.”

As the new-comer to the group, the one who had not been school friends or band mates with the others since my teens, my friendship with the guys was different than their group dynamic. I was in a different band, I was almost a rival, had the Beatles and Rory Storm and the Hurricanes not been so close to one another. If one of us couldn’t make a gig or what not, we’d all stand in for each other. We knew each other, we all were friends, but it’s different, you know. It’s different when you’re actually in the band, making your own music, going through everything together.

And George and I got close because the other two were always running off together. While they were writing songs, or making out- though the latter, we didn’t know about until a while later- we got to hang out in stuffy hotel rooms or backstage or in the studio.

“Yeah, well, you know what everyone says; its Paul and John’s band really. George and I…”

“No,” Eppy cut in, “The Beatles would not be the same if it weren’t for you two. I promise you that.” Eppy was often right. I listened to him a lot. He’d got us so far, he could only take us further. At this time, we were barely scratching the very surface of fame. “But I meant that you and George…” He trailed off, “…could I ask you something, Ringo?”

“Of course.”

He hesitated for a moment as he looked down at his half-eaten plate of dinner. On his fork, he’d scooped up a mouthful that he was considering whether to eat now or not. But he was too polite to stuff his face while he was talking, so he let the fork go and leaned forward to have my full attention.

“I mean nothing by this-“

George walks back in the room and sits back down on the floor.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“Nat. He’s coming up to see us tomorrow. He says he’ll know about the funeral by then, so we can give him the flower or whatever we’re doing for the grave.” He replies solemnly.

I run my fingers through his hair. His demeanour has changed. He doesn’t seem so calm and collected as before. “George, my luv,” I stammer, careful to seem casual so that he doesn’t get defensive, “Are you sure you’re ok?”

His words fail him, so he just nods. I knot my fingers in his hair. He doesn’t respond to it. I run my hand down his back and clasp his side. He doesn’t move. I pull him towards me and he falls into my lap, burying his head there. For a moment, there is nothing, just the warmth of him against me, hugging my legs, then his breathing shallows and I feel drops of wet leak into my trousers. A sob escapes his throat. No no no… he’s crying. I feel like crying when I see him crying. Still, I stay strong and stroke his hair. I think he needs to get it all out. I do let a few tears run down my cheeks, but I don’t let on.

“Georgie, it’s all ok. It’s all fine. I’ve got you.” His arms wrap around my waist.

The memory of Eppy at the dinner table forms back in my mind, “I don’t mean anything by this, but do you like George? I mean in the way that John and Paul like each other. I understand that you, like John, are an Alpha.” He panicked, thinking that he may have offended me, “Not that being an Alpha makes you any more likely to want a relationship with your friend, I was just… interested.”

“Um, I am an Alpha…” Was all I could manage at first. I wanted to tell him that it was fine, I didn’t think anything of his inquiry, but I didn’t quite know what to say about George. I adored him. It was around this time that I’d fallen for him, head over heels. Slowly, I formulated an answer. “He’s a beta, as you might know, which means that it’s a little bit more difficult if I were to like him… but um…”

The smile creeping onto my lips told Eppy all he wanted to know, “So you do?”

I was not in the least bit offended that he assumed as such. It made me happy that someone else knew so I wasn’t having to hide it from everyone.

“Well, I must say, I think you both well suited to one another.”

“Thanks, Eppy.”

Here, as I sit comforting my little Omega, I mouth a small thank you to the sky, hoping Eppy might hear it. Thank you Eppy, because I don’t think I would’ve ever been where I am today without you, both in the band sense and here with George.

I’ll also write thank you to him in the note once I get down to writing it. Mine is probably going to be so long. I have so much to say.


	13. John

Paul’s words numb me. I’m so full of anger, I could burst. I need to get the fuck out of here before I slap the shit out of him. I turn to leave, taking a last look at his desperate face. That’s how I want to keep it, beautiful and all mine. I don’t want to hurt him, but boy do I want to punch something as hard as my arm can swing.

But Paul’s touch chastises my urge as his fingers clasp around my wrist. He tugs me back and he kisses me, his tears spoiling his taste. I try to tug away but he has me tight, even when he ends the kiss.

He waffles some panicked words that I barely hear. I want to leave, I want to cry, I want to go and break my hand punching a wall or something. Then I know I have to when he says, “I wonder if you love him,”

I have to get out. I tug my arm so hard that he topples forward a bit, but catches himself. I head towards the door when his voice, in a desperate, barely coherent cry, screams, “If you liked him, I wouldn’t blame you, I just can’t stop thinking about it. Please John! Please!”

All my strength and self-control cannot, for a second, hold back tears that once again mist my brown eyes. I really don’t want Paul to see me like this, but he sounds so heartbroken, so confused, scared and upset that, as per my duty as his Alpha, I cannot leave him. I take a second to clear my throat before insisting that he call me by my title.

 “Alpha.” My voice shakes a little. It’s nothing compared to Paul’s cracking, broken sound, so I don’t worry too much about it. Sternly, I continue, “Get that right, then calm down and I’ll tell you, alright.”

I step towards him and drag him into a hug. From there, I guide him back to sit on the bed. I pull his legs over my lap and rub his back. He cries and cries, tears soaking into the ruffles on my shirt. I even feel him open his mouth and bite down gently on my collar bone to stifle the wails he cannot help but let out. I hold the back of his head, rubbing behind his ear with the tips of my fingers.

Eventually, his cries are down to the occasional shallow breath with minimal tears soaking to my skin, I feel less of their fresh warmth around now.

“Are you ready to listen now?” I say, clearing my throat once or twice before the full sentence comes out.

“Yes,” He mutters.

 

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Alpha.”

“I didn’t sleep with Eppy, but I am going to be entirely honest with you, Paulie, because I can see how much this hurts you. I did want to sleep with Eppy.”

All the air in Paul’s lungs escape as though I’ve winded him. I hold him tighter.

“You have to listen why, ok?” I tell him.

“Ok,” He splutters.

“In Barcelona, Eppy had a rule: neither of us were to talk about any of you lot. He said he created the rule because I wouldn’t shut up about you, then he brought you up one night and, fuck, I hadn’t seen you all week, I hadn’t fucked you in longer. I was feeling so lonely without you, Paulie. You may not believe me, but this is the truth, every bit of it.”

In a very hurt voice, Paul whispers, “So you wanted to sleep with him because you missed me?”

“Please don’t be angry at me, Paulie. It’s not as simple as that.” He doesn’t have the energy to fight with me, so he slumps further onto me, grasping my shirt in frustration, anger and sadness. I take the hand that has a firm grasp on me and I bring it up to my lips, kissing the back of his hand. “I have to tell you everything, Paul. Please.”

“Carry on.” He bleats.

“Well, I was joking that Eppy had a crush on you because he kept on talking about you that night and he told me that…” I suck in a long, deep breath. It’s strangely hard for me to say, “…actually liked me and wanted to sleep with me. I said no, obviously, but I did kiss him, Paulie, because I felt bad that I’d just rejected him.”

He pulls away to sit by himself, moving his legs off mine and sits straight. I turn to him, running my hands up his thighs to takes the two shaking fists balled up in his lap. He doesn’t move from my touch, so I pray he doesn’t hate me.

“You kissed him?”

“Yes.” I clarify. “That was me and I am so sorry, Paulie, that I ever kissed him. We were both feeling really lonely, and it wasn’t like he had someone he could go home to and fall into bed with like I had. I was his crush and I’d just rejected him. I wanted to make him feel a bit better than he seemed.”

He nods. I can’t make out whether he is really angry or not. His eyes dart from side to side, running all over the room. Its infuriating because I don’t know what’s going to happen. I pray that I don’t lose my Paulie. He’s all I have. Why did Eppy have to die? He’s made me feel lost in every aspect of my life- my work and my domestic life. Getting bothered by Paul’s lack of a response, even just a look my way, I continue talking.

“You said that if I liked him, you wouldn’t blame me.”

His eyes find focus forward, “I just said like. Not kissing. Not an actual intimate touch.” He then looks directly at me, “We promised, after Hamburg, that we’d stay exclusive to each other.” He reminds me.

“I know.” I say apologetically.

“I- I don’t know how to feel, John…” He deliberately corrects himself, “Alpha.” To remind me of who I am to him. It cuts me open. “I love you and I want you and you’re my best friend and partner in writing and in relationship and it kills me to think that you would kiss someone else. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

He turns silent again as he thinks for a while. A couple of times, he meets my gaze as he wonders what to do. I can’t lose him, I just can’t, but I can’t say anything in case I say something that drives him away.

“I’m going to go out and buy some flowers for Eppy, ok?” We stand up in unison.

“Do you want me to come with you?” I suggest. Its futile, because I know he’s going out to get away from me, but I have to try.

He shakes his head, “I think I’ll ask George.”

Though I feel like collapsing and begging for his love, begging for Eppy to come back and make everything ok, I follow Paul down the stairs, dutifully.

Our bandmates are still over by the record player, but George isn’t sitting where he had been when I left. He has his head in Ringo’s lap, turned to the side so he’s facing the wall. Ringo his petting him like he would a cat. Both of them look as though they’d been crying. They don’t question why we look the same.

“George?” Paul calls as he picks up his keys. Ringo looks confused. I walk to the sofa and curl up with a square pillow against my chest. “Do you want to come and buy the flowers? Ringo, you can come too.”

George slowly peeks his head up, wiping his pink face dry. “Sure,” He says.

“Do you want me to come too?” Ringo asks.

“You don’t have to.”

Ringo kisses George on the forehead and lets him go alone. No doubt Ringo would rather ask me what’s going on. I try to fall asleep before he can, but I’m too scared and too wired to do so.


	14. George

It’s hot. As soon as I step out of the house, I’m hit by a wall of humidity that suffocates me. I’d forgotten what a nice summer it’s been. Funny. In one moment, everything that was nice about this time of year, everything we’d be enjoying, the sun, the swimming pool, the break from the studio, all of that disappeared as though the world around us was swallowed into a sink hole and we were trapped in an empty, open plan prison, filled with depression.

The sky is void of clouds, shimmering a bright blue as far as I can see, not even darkening on the horizon. London, with its pleasing skyline, sits pretty backdropped in blue. There aren’t any blaring lights from building windows, nor could you tell of the immense bustling as people pile off to work, or having their lunch break- I think it’s early afternoon by now. Everything feels calm, quiet.

Of course, the roads are packed, but it is summer, late summer too, which means it’s burning hot and lots of people are on holiday. They all file into the roads in all different cars, convertibles and the occasional van, beeping at one another and complaining that heat drives people crazy.

Paul and I sit in the car that boils us until we’re scarlet and shining from sweat. We haven’t said anything for much of the journey. Paul seems too unhappy, lost in his own thoughts to care for anyone else’s input, while I’m feeling a little bit sick. The car doesn’t help as it jolts across pot holes on almost every inch it rolls forward. I don’t think Paul helps either. He slams on the breaks and shoots off too fast. He’s obviously annoyed about something, but I’m busy trying to settle my stomach. The heat makes me feel like baked sewage and I don’t really want to have to try and defuse whatever situation has occurred. Paul will deal with it on his own, then he’ll want to talk.

I think I’m feeling pretty uncomfortable because I’m embarrassed. I didn’t want to cry in front of Ringo, I really didn’t. But, boy did it feel nice to ignore everything, to bury my head in his lap and block out the world, even if I was bawling like a fucking kid. I felt worse when I hadn’t cried. I felt as though I was going to burst, cry out shards of glass that would cut my face. That’s what they felt like as they built up inside me, cold, sharp shards of shattered glass. Once they were out, touching the warmth that Ringo extended me, they melted down and gathered on his trousers for him to softly wipe away.

Looking back at what I must’ve looked like, I probably seemed quite pathetic, balled up on my Alpha, my shoulders jumping with my jagged breaths. Ew.

“Do you want a kiss?”

It doesn’t register that someone is actually talking to me. I realise a second later that there might have been a sound a second ago, breaking the awkward silence hanging over our head.

“Hu?” I mutter, glancing over at Paul. He’s the only one here, I guess he might’ve said something.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

No way I heard that right, “Nope, didn’t catch that.”

“Yes, you did,” Paul insists, “I asked you if you want a kiss.”

He has to be joking, but my mouth can’t form a smile. I’m too weary of the question. I note that Paul isn’t smiling. He can’t be serious. “Why would I want a kiss?”

“Well, Y’know, I don’t know if you’re feeling lonely, but I am, and apparently that makes it ok to kiss someone.” He’s making a point of some kind. There’s a sarcastic tone in his voice. The only thing is, I don’t think the point should be made to me. I have no idea what he’s talking about. He doesn’t even look like he’s actually directing this to me. Then again, he is driving and his eyes are fixed on the road. He can’t exactly look at me for any length of time.

“I don’t get you.”

Paul glimpses me sideways, then shakes his head as though he didn’t mean for me to hear any of that. “It’s John.”

“What’s John?” The car squeaks another few spaces forward. I open my window fully, though it does nothing but let more heat in.

“Did you know about him and Eppy?”

Well, we all had our suspicions that Eppy had a crush on John. Of course, we did. We’d see the way Eppy used to watch him, closely, laugh and joke with him, happily take insults like ‘Queer Jew’ when he would’ve scolded anyone else for using such language. But it being mutual? I always thought that John enjoyed being fancied, but didn’t have much time for anyone other than Paul. He loved flirting, in his very special, almost counter flattery way, but he always stayed loyal to Paul, as I understand it. I feel as though I’m stepping on egg shells having this conversation.

“What about him and Eppy?”

Paul huffs loudly, “Stop asking so many fucking questions! You know what I’m talking about.”

The people in the next car pulling up beside us, hears Paul’s outburst and peers over. Their eyes say it all. The tall girl driving smiles wildly as she nudges the kid in the front passenger seat. They both look over in awe at us. Paul doesn’t look at them at all, so I feel bad and smile back, giving a small wave. Thank God, we move away from them, or else we would have had people staring at us as we yelled at each other.

Sometimes, I forget who we are. We can’t just walk out on the street any more. We’re known to everyone.

“I know that Eppy liked John,” I say calmly, “And I always thought the Barcelona trip was weird, but John seemed to really want you when he got back. If he’d done anything with Eppy, wouldn’t you think he wouldn’t need you as soon as he got home?”

“He kissed Eppy.”

Ok, this may not be what Paul wants to hear, but it is just a kiss. Don’t get me wrong, if Ringo went and kissed someone else, I would be heartbroken, feel betrayed, all that Paul probably feels now, but back in Hamburg Paul and John were mated, yet both of them fucked about with prostitutes and fans. We all did. I guess it just doesn’t seem as bad, even though the two haven’t since been with anyone except each other. Maybe I’m being too casual with this.

“What a dick.” I state monotonously.

“And when he told me, he made out like he was just doing Eppy a favour and because he missed me.”

Well… “How do you know that he didn’t do it because of that?” I ask. I’m full of questions. Paul glances me again, with narrowed, confused eyes. He doesn’t seem as angry as he seems intrigued in what I’m saying. He doesn’t need to say anything, I know to explain myself, “Well, look, John may not be the most honest guy you’ve ever met, but if he’d admit to kissing Eppy, I don’t see the point in him making the reason up, because he knows no matter what, you’re going to be pissed off with him.”

Paul considers this for a while.

The traffic is moving at an acceptable pace now and we turn the corner onto a small high street lined with little shops. A supermarket store front has a whole garden picked and pampered, dressed neatly on fancy looking shelves. We look for a place to park nearby.

“So, you would forgive him?” Paul eventually asks as we head down a backstreet in search for somewhere to dump the car.

“Who? John?” I am totally not in the right state of mind to be having this kind of conversation. It dawns on me why we’re here, buying flowers. I really never thought I’d have to pick flowers for the death of any of my friends anytime soon. Not this decade, nor the next or the next. Still, I focus myself, “You know, I think I would, if I were you. Maybe I’m being too soft on him, but he does love you, Paul, and the fact that he told you at all shows that he’s feeling guilty about it.”

“But he wouldn’t have told me had Eppy not died.”

That is very true. With the car all parked up, I take off my seatbelt and open the door, scrambling to get out because, for some reason, I am incapable of doing anything with any sort of precision. My legs feel very weak.

Paul walks around the front of the car and we head towards the aforementioned supermarket up this street a little, then down to the right.

As we’re walking, pretty much in silence, I realise something, “Well, what if John wanted you when he got home because he felt so guilty that he wanted to prove to you that he loves you. Makes sense, right? Because John isn’t usually one to talk about how he’s feeling or what’s going on.”

Paul nods his head at a weird side angle. “Maybe.”

We don’t talk on the matter until we’re back in the car. The dark fabric of the seats has heated like hobs atop an oven. As soon as we close the doors and start up the engine, we wind down the windows, all four of them, to let the slightly cooler air from outside in. It barely makes much of a difference, even when we start moving.

I pick the conversation back up. It’s like a distraction from the shitty situation we’re all stuck in. Then again, it’s just another shitty situation to pile on top really. “So, what are you thinking about John?”

“I really don’t want to fuck up our relationship…” He says after a short hesitation, “…right now, I really need him.”

I feel the same way about Ringo. Not the fucking up of our relationship, just the bit about needing him. I love him. The thought of him comforts the dull ache persisting in my body.

“…but then, I don’t want to just accept what’s happened because I’m in a vulnerable position and I don’t want to be alone.” Paul continues.

“Look at it this way, you won’t be alone. You’ll have me and Ringo. You’ll pick up some gorgeous girl from somewhere and fall in love with her. You’re Paul fucking McCartney. You don’t need anyone.”

I see a small smile creep onto his face, which makes me smile in return.

“Ok. I don’t need anyone, but I want John.”

“So, if you want him, have him. If you’re willing to forgive him. But do it because you love and want him, not need him, ok?”

“Alright.”

We both smile out the window, catching some fans’ eyes and winking at them. We may both be feeling a bit shit, but that shouldn’t stop us making others feel good, which was the whole point in being a band, so people could get enjoyment from our music. Also, I think Paul feels a bit bad for completely ignoring the woman and kid in that car on the way to the shop.

“Oh, by the way,” I say as I look back at him, “Nat’s coming tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He can take the flowers and notes to the funeral. I already told him about it.”

“We’d better get writing those notes then.”

I nod, thinking about how happy Ringo was to do the note. I wonder what he has to write. He probably has loads of ideas. Paul as well, since it was his idea. I punch him lightly on the shoulder, very fondly. “It was a nice idea of yours, mate. Ringo thinks it’ll really help him.”

Paul beams back looking very handsome, bathed in the glowing sunlight, “I’m glad I could help you both.”


	15. Ringo

“So… what’s up with you and-“

John cuts me off immediately, “No…no don’t start with that.”

“Don’t start with what?” I ask. I’m only trying to be a good friend. He looks worried and pale, fresh tears drying on his cheeks so fast due to the heat.

He licks his bottom lip, then bites it softly. I think that’s one of his nervous things he does. He did it a lot in interviews when it felt uncomfortable or there wasn’t much to say. “With wanting to know what’s going on. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re all a bit on the depressed side of things.”

I nod, knowing he wants me to leave him alone. It’s too hot inside so I stroll out to the poolside. At the very end of the garden, there is a small patch of grass running from fence to fence. It has small white daisies sprouting and reaching for the sun, to drink in every last drop of its beams. I take off my socks and shoes and go to for a walk around the small rectangular green. The strands tickle my bare feet. They’re unusually hot, but it’s not surprising. It’s very summery out here.

I walk along the pool edge that’s titled with these pale blue slabs of stone. Water laps at it softly like waves at the beach would on the sand. It laps at my feet, refreshingly cold.

I sort of want to swim. I shouldn’t want to, I know, but it’s such a nice day for it. And I do want a distraction, quite badly. There’s a point in which you reach with any huge change in your life when you know that you cannot change anything, so you accept it. I feel as though I’ve reached that stage far too quickly. I feel as fragile as I looked when I was sobbing into George or when he lay on me weeping, yet when I’m alone like this, I feel almost optimistic. Things will sort themselves out. It’ll be bloody difficult without Eppy…

Without Eppy: we never thought we’d be without him.

But we’ll get through it. We’ll miss him every day, of course. Not a doubt in my mind that I will walk into the studio and think of him every time we have to go in there. Every interview or appearance on TV, I think of him. Every time someone tells me which suit to wear or how to be in this interview or that. Every time I need a friend who knows what he’s talking about, I miss the hell out of Eppy.

I strip to my boxers and sit on the pool edge with my legs hovering on the water’s surface. I remember how nice it was yesterday. It feels like it was a whole week ago since we got the news, or since that day out in the pool, but it was only yesterday.

Yesterday, when my troubles really did seem so far away. I start singing Paul’s masterpiece in my head, in his voice, though, I wouldn’t dare start ruining it with my tone-deaf pitching.

_Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they’re here to stay, oh I believe in yesterday. Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be, there’s a shadow hanging over me, oh yesterday, came suddenly. Why she had to go I don’t know, she wouldn’t say…_

I swing my legs around in time with the music. I remember Paul talking about this bloody song for weeks, going round, asking people if they recognised the tune to make sure he hadn’t just copied someone, then it became called ‘Scrambles Eggs.’ He still calls it that now. But it’s such a good song, so much meaning to it. More meaning now that I sing it about Eppy.

Feeling a little lonely, out in the sun, all by myself, I call John, “Do you want to come and paddle with me.”

“Wouldn’t want to do anything with you,” John mocks, though his voice isn’t quite its usual jokey tone. Still, he tries to seem normal, “I’ve got a boyfriend, y’know.”

“I only wanted a little paddle,” I continue to joke, “It won’t mean anything, that I promise yeh.” But he doesn’t find it so funny. He perches on the edge of one of the deck chairs and looks away from me. Hit a nerve, perhaps?

“Is George alright?” He pipes up again a second later, “He seemed like he was crying. I haven’t see him cry-“

“Nor had I,” I chimed in, “But yeah, he did. I think it’s good, actually. He’s not trying to be strong.” I watch the water dance around my legs as I raise them up in front of me.

“He does that for you, yeh know.”

“What do you mean?”

There’s something akin to a smile that pries John’s lips upwards. I have to close one of my eyes when I look at him, because the sun is directly in my line of sight.

“He wants to be strong for you. Because you’re a little wimp and he should’ve been your alpha.” I know he’s only joking. We both laugh, but I’m a little astonished that John said something so… nice. That George wants to be strong for me because he knows I can be a bit… well, at a lack of a better word, wimpy. Sensitive perhaps. It also is slightly heart-breaking to think that George wants to be strong for me, as though he couldn’t cry in front of me. I feel bad. I should look after him as much as he looks after me.

“You really think so?”

“That you’re a wimp? Yeah,” He teases, before becoming a bit more serious again, “I really think he wants to be your strength. I mean, Paul does the same for…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head, biting his lips again.

“For you?” I finish his sentence for him.

“Richie, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have Paulie, you know. He’s put up with all my bullshit over so many years. The fuck am I going to do if he…” He stops himself again.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I suggest, but he shakes his head.

“There’s no point. I fucked up, that’s it. Right now, I don’t want to write anything to Eppy, I want to write to Paul and say that I’m sorry, but I don’t know how I can.”

While it does get on my nerves a bit that John has this problem with writing to Eppy, yet he’s perfectly fine to write to Paul and sort out their relationship, I try and sympathise with him instead of just getting annoyed or upset. I think he needs a friend at the moment, not someone who’ll have a go at him. There’s too much piling up on all of our minds, but John has had to go through this pain more times in his life that I think I could bare. And now, with Paul and him on the edge of breaking apart, he probably feels so delicate. Delicate for John means angry and aggressive. I don’t want him to be like that.

“Why don’t you do what you’re good at and write him a song?” I propose.

“Oh, that’s been done before.” He counters wearily.

“Then sing him the one that you’ve already got.”

“That’s cheesy.”

“That’s getting your point across.”

He dismisses it and we sit in silence again. A short while after, once it gets too boring, all this awkwardness between us, John stands up, removes his trousers and sits next to me, covering my hand with his.

Half an hour later and the other boys are home. They show us the beautiful bunch of flowers they bought and we sit out in the sun. Someone- I think it’s George- remembers that we haven’t had lunch. He goes inside to make it. John and Paul don’t really speak, but they seem quite normal together. I hope that they are ok.


	16. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eh, I don't like how I wrote this chapter  
> Planning some smut for the next one ;)

The sun doesn’t tire of sitting in the sky, warming the blue of it until late in the evening. The house is still hot and we’re all glistening a little with sweat. It’s not, however, as unbearable as it was earlier when the sun sat at its highest in the sky, directly sending its rays to cook us like we were in one big oven. It’s actually quite a nice level of heat. Every so often, a breeze shoots in from the wide-open back doors and cools us down that little bit more.  

George and Ringo sit up to the dinner table hunched over pretty writing paper that they’re penning their letters to Eppy on. In one hand they hold their pens, in the other, they hold each other’s hands. Ringo looks as though he might cry again as the words from his mind that he’d wanted to say are finally coming out. George promises to be with him the whole time. He doesn’t say so, he just holds Ringo tightly and won’t let go until they’ve both finished their notes. They look so very sweet like that. I wish John and I were that keen to display our feeling to one another. We’re often not the touchy-feely type unless we’re really turned on, then we can’t keep our hands to ourselves.

But I’m still considering what’s going to happen with John. I’m sort of angry at him in the sense that I can’t believe he kiss someone when we’d decided to be exclusive to each other, but George’s advice swirls in my head. I want John. Whether I feel as though I need him or not, I do want him to be mine.

I feel selfish, because all I can think about is my own life, never mind the fact that one of my friends has just lost theirs, or the countless lives that will mourn him.

Right, I really need to sort this out.

I sit next to John on the sofa, right next to him, so that I can run my fingers through his short, fair hair. For a minute, I miss his mop top. Maybe it’s not the mass of hair that I actually miss, but the time in my life that it represents. A time of my life when I felt safety with Eppy bossing us around. He started to peel off once we stopped touring. He thought he had nothing to do, that we wouldn’t need him anymore. Has he any idea- if he is up there, watching over us- that we need him no matter what we’re doing?

John lets me stroke his hair. He doesn’t move away, yet he doesn’t look at me, or lean into the hug that I’m offering. I feel as though I shouldn’t be doing this. After all, he should not be angry at me, it should be… it is the other way around. I’m just running back to what feels safe, I’m just…

He drops one hand so it rests on my leg and he softly rubs his thumb back and forth over my knee. “Does this mean you don’t hate me?” He whispers.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m falling straight back into his arms. But I can’t help wanting to. They’re soft and safe and genuine. Right now, in this moment, I believe what he told me about Eppy, I feel his guilt and apology. I don’t quite believe I say, “Of course, I don’t.” but judging by the relief wiping across John’s face, I’m pretty sure I did say it. He goes to speak, yet no words escape his lips as they’re suddenly tightened. His eyes well with tears. I hold him tight and beg him not to hide from me. He cries into my shoulder.

Ok, I want him and I need him and he needs me. I don’t care anymore, I couldn’t care less about my reservations. I don’t care if I’m letting him mistreat me, or if I’m a fool for accepting the fact that he sort of cheated on me or if the relationship is unhealthy. I wrap my arms around him, my legs curling around his waist. I’m in an odd side position like a koala or sloth attaching itself to a tree.

“John,” I croon, “I believe you and I love you and I’m sorry that I got angry at you, but you know that it hurt me. I’ve loved you from the moment we first played together. I couldn’t imagine that you had kissed someone else.”

“It was a mistake.” He mutters between shallow breaths. He’s careful to keep them hidden so that the other two in the room don’t know that he’s crying, “I loved Eppy, Paul, but not in the way I love you and I shouldn’t have kissed him.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I insist, “I know why you did it. That’s all I can ask for. And I do believe you, my luv.” He nods, turning his head up to nuzzle my neck and shoulder. I hold him, kiss him, stroke his hair for ages, letting him cry into my shirt. “It’s all fine.” I whisper.

I notice how dark it’s getting and I still haven’t written my note. I don’t want to leave writing it too late, or else I’ll be too tired and too rushed to get everything out.

I tap John’s shoulder, “C’mon, let me up for a second. I’m going to write my note.”

He elbows me a little, with a tear-clogged sigh, “You’re still going to do that?”

I roll my eyes as I pick myself up off the sofa, heading over to where Ringo and George are. I take a sheet of the thick, almost parchment-like paper from one of the writing sets that’s open in the middle of the table and seek out a pen from one of the draws lining the room. I sit on the chair beside George.

There’s something… someone missing. I look over at John who’s wiping tears away from his eyes and cheeks while styling it out as though he’s just fixing his hair.

It’s worth one last try.

“John.” I call. The two boys beside me look up as well, as John casts his red-eyed expression my way. “Are you sure you don’t want to come and write something. It doesn’t have to be very long and we won’t read it.” I see in my peripheral vison Ringo nodding away with a smile on his face.

“Thanks, but I’m ok.” He assures us. I shake my head, wishing he wasn’t so bloody stubborn.

I back down at the paper. Someone once said that the scariest thing for any writer is a blank page. For one of the first times I’ve had to stare down at a plain sheet of paper, I’m not stuck for what to write. I feel no pressure as I place down the nib of the pen and form its black ink into the words;

_Dear Eppy,_

_I really am going to miss you. I’m not entirely sure how we’ll cope without your strict routines and wisdom. You are, if anyone should be, the fifth Beatle, because you made us. You helped us all achieve our dreams of having our music out there. For all the bad times we’ve ever had, knowing and working with you makes every down moment worth getting through._

_Thank you for being so accepting and understanding, as well. If we didn’t have you to guide us, John and I may never have been able to be together, Ringo and George may never have gotten together and we would probably not have such open minds. We all love you and thank you so much for being with us._

_We’re all going to miss you like hell. I’m even going to miss all the times you had a go at us, because I know you were always just trying to put us right and there wasn’t a time I can remember when you went wrong._

_Love from Paul._

You’d think that just from writing, you couldn’t get that emotional. As a songwriter, I always assumed that, to make a piece of writing emotional, you had to put a sad-sounding tune behind meaningful words. I have been proved wrong. I’m welling up just writing this.

When I’m done, I run my index finger under both eyes to catch some tears, then look to Ringo and George who have finished as well. They’re both tearing up too. We nervously, sympathetically giggle.

“Think you got everything down?” George asks.

“I could write pages.” Ringo says, squeezing George’s hand tighter.

“I could too.” I add.

Then John pipes up, “You all are right girls, you know that?”

We all ignore him. He’d feel so much better if he got everything he’s thinking down in a letter, but he won’t. I’ve accepted that.

“Right!” I say, deciding that we have too much to do and it’s already getting late, “George, you going to make dinner?” I get an affirmative nod from him, “Ringo, do you want to help me tie these to the flowers?”

“Sure!”

“John…” I glance over at him, “Will you clear this stuff away?”

He sighs like a teenager who’s just been asked to do his chores, but he does them anyway. I look at my three friends, all doing something to help each other and I think, as long as we’ve got each other, everything will be alright.

I think it will, even if we need some direction once in a while, I’m happy to provide it.


	17. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this one either. God... I hope you lot do.

Christ, I never thought I could feel so relieved. With Paul’s body firmly grasped onto me, telling me that he still loves me, that he wants to be with me, I break down. I realise now that I cannot last without him. I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened had he said he didn’t want to be with me anymore.

He goes to write the note for Eppy that I, of course, condemn. I still can’t see the point of it, so when he asks me if I’d like to join the little writing club consisting of 3 grown men bawling over their own words, I decline.

Thank God, once they’re done, George goes to make dinner. I’m starving. I have done nothing today, but I’d happily eat a horse right now. We all decide to chance putting on the TV, avoiding any news segments we can. Any mention of The Beatles, or the word ‘manager’ or anything that might be a cutsie nickname for Eppy, we turn the channel over and sit in dead silence, pretending nothing ever happened.

Through dinner and the while after that we all spend huddled in the front room, smoking cigarettes into the late night, Paul stays attached to me. He’s either lying across me, using my side as a pillow or sitting between my legs. I constantly have one hand either playing with his hair or his fingers or his neck, or stroking his skin softly, fondly, telling him how much I adore him and never want to let him go, all through my touch.

Ringo and George head up to bed when the room becomes so dark that the TV screen’s blaring colour burns into our eyes. I watch them walk upstairs. George goes up first, followed closely by Ringo who keeps an encouraging hand on the small of George’s back. Oh, they are so good together, it’s sickeningly sweet how cute they look.

But I’ve got my Paulie and I love him as much as George and Ringo love each other. I just don’t show it how they do. Neither does Paulie. We’re more similar than either of us would like to admit.

I’m so glad I’ve got him. All this death business has once again sent me into an overactive state of remembering how fleeting life is and moments like this, quiet and gentle, are rare. I should make them less rare. I promise myself I will, while kissing Paul in his mess of hair as a promise to him too.

The thoughts of mortality are too serious for the likes of me, so I run my hand down Paul’s chest, over his stomach to the waistband of his trousers. I dip my fingertips in the top, weaving them under his boxers. The touch isn’t immediately sexual, it’s meant to be comforting.

He giggles lightly. “We’re going to be alright, aren’t we?” He optimistically states.

“As long as I have you.” I kiss him on his perfect lips, then as a matter of habit, I lower my hand as though I’m going for his member.

But he doesn’t react. I am in the mood, despite everything that’s gone on. I cautiously try my luck by undoing the top button on his trousers, making it roomier for me to fit further in. He gasps flinging his head back having not expected a touch like this. I lie him back on the sofa and lie half on top of him, half resting on the sofa. The position gives me room to touch him, which still having power and ability to reach everywhere. I kiss his neck, gracing my teeth along his Adam’s apple and sucking a bruise beside it.

“Should we really be doing this?” Paul questions, though he seems to be quite into it. His voice is breathless and dreamy. I kiss up to his lips again, but don’t actually close my mouth over his.

I stay close enough for my lips to brush his as I talk, “If you want to stop, let’s stop.”

“No!” He cries, lifting his hips up when I remove my hand.

This doesn’t feel like other times we’ve fucked. Usually it’s hot and desperate, we’re always fighting for power or there’s a lot of playing around involved. This time, it’s tender and gentle. We’re quiet and caring. We don’t look like two horny bastards who would dry hump the air in desperation. We look like lovers who need each other. There’s a lot of kind words and whispers. I tell Paul that I’ve got him, I won’t let him go, that he’s mine. He breathes ‘please,’ he holds me so that my entire body is against his, he watches every emotion that crosses my face.

To be honest, it’s a little too sombre for my tastes, but I really don’t want it any other way at the moment.

Paul gets on top of me and straddles my waist. As he rides me, he looks almost majestic. He’d make a groovy chick. I’m not even joking around about that. He’d be stylish and have a fucking beautiful body. His hair would be long and constantly washed and styled the exact way he wanted. He’d wear only the finest of MOD fashion with the occasional rocker leather jacket. Now that’s an image I’d happily fuck with. And it lightens the mood a little when I giggle.

“What? What did I do?” Paul asks, though he doesn’t slow the rhythm he’s built up, thrusting into me.

“Nothing. Only, you’re a fucking beautiful girl.”

He gives me a sideways look, “The fuck are you on about? I’m trying to get off here. It’s pointless if your off in dreamland.”

“Not off in dreamland.” I counter, “Just… I know that you’d be so sexy if you were a girl.”

“Am I not a sexy guy?”

I shrug my shoulders, then get a firm punch on my chest. “Ey, that’s not the way you treat your Alpha.” He does it again. I catch his balled-up fist on the third try. Now here’s the playing.

But Paul loosens his fist in my hand, instead bending his fingers the wrong way to wrap around me. He’s not in the mood to play. Christ, can I not get a distraction from feeling like shit. To catch him off guard I thrust up into him so hard he jolts forwards and lands on my chest. I hold him tight there as I fuck him hard. He screams into my shoulder, much like I had cried on him earlier.

We finish a short while after, with Paul rolling off me onto the floor.

“Tired.” He proclaims.

I stroke the back of his neck; my hands being tickled by his baby hairs. “Let’s go then.” I say, getting up onto my slightly weak feeling feet. Paul threads his arm around my waist as we pad upstairs. “We will be ok, won’t we?” I ask, nibbling his ear as we walk. He turns his head so to catch my lips with his. He giggles when I mistime a step and almost end up flat on my face.

“Oh, fuck you.” I hiss.

He steadies me “We’ll be alright if you can stop fucking about, you stupid-“

“Alpha?” I cut in, giving him a stern look.

He bites his bottom lip, “You… stupid Alpha.”


	18. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, at last, a chapter I'm proud of.  
> And only two more to go, but don't panic, I have at least two other fics I've planned in this universe and they're hopefully going to be of a similar length, so yeah...  
> But this one is not finished yet, so enjoy it.  
> Also, made a bit of a cock up on the whole gender of Nat- Eppy's friend- so I had to correct that in other chapters as well as this one. Sorry about that.

I wake up to another boiling hot day. Ringo and I had kicked the duvet off us until it fell on the floor. I swear I didn’t go to bed completely nude, but I am now. I must’ve taken the remaining items of clothing off in my sleep. Ringo is naked too. Fuck he looks beautiful, golden skin glistening with a light tan, hair roughly splayed out on the pillow. I roll over, knowing how heavy a sleeper he is, and kiss him on the forehead. In this heat, I can’t sleep. I need a piss. I get up and hurry into the loo.

Well, another day. I really feel as though I’m falling into the next one with my eyes closed, blinded, lost. I had another dream last night that we had a concert and Eppy was in the crowd, watching us with that proud grin he mustered on occasion. He watched us until a group of girls surrounded. He fell into obscurity amongst fans that layered in front of him. I thought I saw him by the door of the venue, right at the back of the room, but as quickly as he’d appeared there, he was gone. I couldn’t wake up from the dream, I couldn’t get out of it. I felt locked in my own mind. I can’t say how much I’d love to borrow someone else’s mind sometimes.

Luckily, the dream fades, leaving only blurs of the most eerie moments that no longer have their effect on me.

I walk back in and consider, since I feel a little cooler now, I might just get back into bed, but I hear someone downstairs. Maybe John and Paul are up already. Maybe I don’t have to make breakfast this morning. I hope someone else has taken the initiative to do so. As much as I love food, I prefer not to make it myself if I can help it.

I plod down the stairs clad in a shirt that just about hides all that John and Paul really don’t need to see. Well, they’ve seen it before… it won’t be much of a surprise. They are both terrors for running around in the nude. I just prefer to be clothed around them, especially since I’ve emerged from a room where Ringo is, also naked. They might think we had sex. Not at this time. Wouldn’t that be a bit insensitive?

When I get downstairs, only John is there, wearing a pair of strangely simple trousers. I thought he liked the more colourful… interesting clothes. The hippy fashion. I certainly like the bell-bottoms that are all the rage these days, but I only have two sets of clothes that I bought here. I only now realise that I haven’t been home in two days. It feels like months. It feels like I live with John and Paul. Even without the two days here, we practically all live together, whether here or at mine and Ringo’s place.

John sees me as I enter the living room. He looks quite serious. He doesn’t smile how he usually does and he’s covering a sheet of paper under his arm. Finally, he’s sitting somewhere other than on the same side of that sofa. I bet that seat _smells_ like him.

“Morning.” I murmur. It’s a lot brighter down here than upstairs. I rub my eyes as they itch from the lack of use last night. It takes a moment to adjust to the light.

“Morning.” John replies, then quickly moves on from morning pleasantries, “Do you know how Paul and Ringo attached your letters to the flowers?”

I cock my head to the side. Why would he want to know? “Yeah, why?”

“Will you show me?”

It’s too early, but I’m too curious to turn him down. I nod and walk over to where the flowers are kept in a tall, glass vase. John walks over and hands me a sheet of that paper that we had all written our notes on. Looks away as I smile, because he knows what I’m thinking.

“You wrote-“

“Yes.” He snaps. I nod, trying not smile too much. He looks very emotional. I bet he’s eating his words from earlier. I bet he felt pretty good for writing it. I wonder how long he’s been up. I heard him and Paul come up to bed. I never heard him go back.

“Paul will be happy.” I tell him, quietly.

He scoffs, but I can tell he doesn’t mean to. He meets my gaze almost apologetically. With his note, I roll it up, tie a ribbon around it- we’d bought these thick ribbons that matches the colours of the flowers- and tie the ribbon around the stems of the flowers in a bow.

“There.” I present the finished piece as though it were a work of art.

John nods. “I bet Paul will be happy.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

He hesitates “Yeah, I will. He’ll probably see anyway.”

The two of us flick on the TV and sit in silence for much of an episode of some black and white show. Neither of us are properly watching, so I don’t really pick up on what it is.

Paul comes to join us, followed shortly by Ringo, who looks a little worse for wear having woken up too early for his liking, but having found himself alone on the top floor, felt as though he should at least migrate to where we all are. He takes up the entire length of the sofa, while John and I have the two arm chairs either side and Paul goes into the kitchen to see what food we have for breakfast. What he means by that is, he’s going to look for food I can cook everyone. I try to stay quiet and convince everyone I don’t exist.

John fucking ruins that by having to ask me a question as I sat, perfectly melting into the background as though I wasn’t there. “When’s Nat coming?”

I manage not to glare at him, “Oh, yeah. He said early. So anytime, I guess.”

John gives me a wide-eyed look, “So, why are we all still… erm, pretty undressed?”

“I don’t know, John. Maybe you were planning to take a dip in the pool with your head under the water for 20 minutes.”

“Fuck you, Harrison. You’ll be the one I send to the door if He turns up right now. Your fault for not saying anything.”

I roll my eyes. Yeah, I should probably get dressed. I tap Ringo to see if he wants to come with me. He groans awake.

“Luv, shall we go and get dressed?”

“What for?”

“Nat’s coming soon.”

He groans again as I take his hand and help him up. John comes with us, yelling to Paul that we’ll be down in a second. Paul yells back, “Well, I’m not going to fucking open the door if he rings now!”

“Don’t worry, Harrison’s got you there.” John smirks up at me. I feign a smile back. Dickhead.

Having only two sets of clothes, I’m stuck with that I wore yesterday. It probably smells of sweat and tears, but I’ve nothing else. What I wore here the day before has been in a pile beside the bed and smell a hell of a lot worse. Ringo has to do the same, picking up his very old clothes, giving them a smell, then dropping them back where they were.

“We haven’t been home in two days.” He observes.

“I know.” I mutter. And I don’t want to go home. Home would feel too empty. Ringo feels the same. He is in no hurry to suggest we go home tonight. He just pulls on his clothes.

John meets us in the hall as Paul walks up the stairs. “George, you wouldn’t mind putting something on for us, some kind of fry up or something?” The latter begs. John pleads with me with his eyes while Ringo shrugs, looking as hopeful that I’ll say yes. I cave with a muttered “Fuck you all.”

“Are you going to accept that?” John asks Ringo, “He is your Omega.”

“He’s got a filthy mouth, I know.” Ringo affirms. I shake my head, ignoring them both as I head to the kitchen.

The doorbell rings and, I don’t know why I go straight to open it, but I do. Ringo takes over the cooking duty. On the doorstep, Nat stands, dressed in a very formal, black suit, looking as though he hasn’t slept for days. I bet I look the same.

“Hi.” I say as cheerily as I can without it sounding over the top or inappropriate for the situation. I’m having to really think about what I say.

“Hello, George,” He replies.

“Come in.”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay long. You said on the phone that you had something for the…” His volume trails off as he practically whispers “…funeral.”

“Yeah, we do. Come in for a second, though. Can I get you a drink, or something to eat? I’m cooking breakfast.” He walks through the door and into the living room where John greets him and Ringo pokes his head around the kitchen doorway.

“No, no, I can’t, George, you know that. But thank you.”

I nod and head to get the flowers. I hold them in my hands as though they, all bundled up, are my baby. He looks at it and the small smile on his lips vanish.

“Oh, they’re really nice, but we’re not allowed flowers at funerals.”

Well, fuck. John and Ringo are both gaping at him. I try to catch their eyes to make them stop.

He then shakes him head, “Actually, forget it. I’ll make it work somehow.”

“Oh you really don’t have to go against-“

He cuts me off, his smile returning, a very gracious smile, “Please, George. I’m sorry I mentioned it. They really are lovely. Brian would be so pleased.” His hand runs down to the four rolled up pieces of paper on the stem of one of the flowers. “What are these?”

“Letters.” I explain, “Or notes. It was Paul’s idea. We wrote them to Eppy, everything we never got to say.”

“That’s a nice idea.”

He hears Paul thump down the stairs, “Oh Paul, these are great, and the notes…”

His eyes light up as he counts four of them. I see John look away. “Yes, well we all had things we wanted to say to Bri.” Paul clarifies, then quietly breathes, “…all of us.” as he looks at John.

“Well, he would’ve loved this. I do have to go, but I’ll make sure these get to him. Thank you very much boys.”

It feels as though he’s just walked in and he hurries back out. Well, I guess he did literally just come in. He barely walked five or six steps. After seeing him out, I walk back into the living room where Paul is sitting on John’s knee, kissing him. I think I know why.

I go back into the kitchen where Ringo is standing over the hob. I walk up behind him and press my body against his back. He rolls his head back onto my shoulder.

“I love you a lot, you know.” I tell him.

“I love you too.”


	19. Ringo

Has summer been murdered already? Autumn takes the bright colours of leaves and blossoms off the trees and casts the browns and yellows onto the pavement around them. The air is colder, sending harsh breezes shooting past us, through our hair and our clothes. The city no longer bathes in humid beams of sun streaming in through clouds. The clouds now gather in thick packs. The sky poking through is rarely such a nice blue.

We’re back in the wonderful world of Abbey Road, heading back to EMI studios, our home from home, ranking probably second in a list of three where we spend the majority of our time. For me, the list would go; My home with George, my home with John and Paul, Studio 2 at EMI.

Yet- I think we all feel it- it feels like a stranger we knew stood here, but we never have made any effort to really know. Once, this used to be a place of creation. Now, I’m not sure what it is.

The four of us get out of John’s car and stand on the pavement, facing the gates lining the building. It’s quite the cinematic moment, had we the cameras to film it. Oh, that reminds me, we’re going to be filming a new movie soon. I don’t really see much point in it other than fulfilling our contract. The other two had some kind of purpose; to propel us into further fame, to sell our albums and our image. They were pretty fun to film, as well, but by the time we’d finished ‘Help!’ the excitement of making a movie had long died off.

People now know what we are and what to expect, so why another film?

But I’m not really worried about the film at the moment. I’m thinking about stepping into the studio with the feeling that something is missing. By the way all four of us struggle to move towards it, I guess we all feel the same.

“We’ve got to do it eventually, boys.” Paul says and leads the way. Nervously, we follow, padding up the white steps and in the narrow doorway. Well, we’re doing it. We’re going in.

George Martin greets us and takes us to studio two. Immediately, John strides forward to tell him about this song he has an idea for. Paul joins in with his song idea as well. George and I hang back as we usually do. I just hope that, in all their preparation for their own penned songs, they won’t forget that George has written one too. He told them a while back. I pray that they remember him.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” George hums out of earshot of the three walking ahead of us. He takes my arm and whispers close to my ear so that I feel his breath curling against my skin. It’s actually comforting to have him so near. I automatically clench onto his linked arm with mine.

“Really weird,” I affirm, “I hope things go well.”

George nods as we enter studio 2. It looks no different, but it feels wrong. I look over at my drum kit, set up in one corner. Microphones are set up all over the place. It’s looks like we never left and feels like we’ve never been in here before.

“Ok boys,” George Martin grabs all of our attentions, “I think we should have a go at these two songs, alright. What were they, again? Hello Goodbye and…?”

“I am the Walrus.” John states matter-of-factly.

George and Paul start giggling.

“C’mon John, you’re not that ugly, you don’t have to start calling yourself ‘The Walrus.’” Paul laughs, sending both me and George into hysterics.

John looks deadly serious and seriously pissed off. “Fuck you lot, alright.” John spits, “Remember Yellow Submarine? Yeah, well I’m telling you that this one isn’t as ridiculous as that song, ok?” I roll my eyes. Always one to criticise what everyone calls my song. Paul actually wrote it, I took ownership of it with my fantastic delivery, I’ll have you know.

He tells us the lyrics, then how he wants it played. Paul does the same with Hello Goodbye, getting a negative response from John who complains that it’s too commercial. Honestly, suddenly no one has any kind of open mind or anything nice to say. I try to keep my mouth shut, not because I’m worried what I’ll say, just because everyone seems too interested in their own opinion.

We mess around trying to get the right sound for I Am the Walrus, then have a break. It’s been a while since we’ve done this and our musical stamina is a little lacking, not to mention how reluctant most of us are feeling to be back.

I suggest we go up to the roof for a cigarette and some air. Paul and George join me.

I light two cigarettes on the way up, one for me and one for George. Paul quips that I left him out and I said that I left his cigarette with John.

“Fuck off. That prick would never do anything as thoughtful as lighting a cigarette for me unless I had one without a lighter.”

He takes out his own cigarette and places it in the corner of his mouth. Seeing as I have a lighter out and ready, I light it for him. We lean on the wall out on the roof of EMI.

“Well, we’re back.” George observes, smoke spilling out of his mouth, looking fucking handsome.

Paul laughs softly, “Yeah, if you really want to put your name to the kind of crap we’re coming out with these days, then yeah, we’re back.”

“You don’t like the stuff you two’ve written?” I ask.

Paul shakes his head, “I’m just joking.” He takes a drag of his cigarette, “Feels like shit, though, without Eppy.”

Thank god someone has said it. “Yeah. It feels wrong coming back here without him.”

“That it does.” George agrees.

“But we’ll be alright. I’m sure we will. People will eat up our shit as fast as we can produce it, so no problem there.” Paul sounds very out of character.

“You make it sound like it’s all about the money.” I interject.

Again, Paul shakes his head to retract the statement, “I don’t mean it like that. We’ll be ok because we’re the fucking Beatles, aren’t we? We’ll have good and bad records, but it’s what we like doing.”

George and I agree. Paul finishes his cigarette first and leaves us other two alone. I kick the floor idly.

“Do you really think we’ll be ok?” I ask.

George hesitates before answering me, “Why wouldn’t we be?”

I don’t know, but things feel wrong, things feel different. Eppy isn’t here to make things feel right. I shrug my shoulders.

It’ll all be fine.


	20. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I wasn't expecting to have finished today  
> but yeah  
> hope you liked this fic as much as the other long one, because boy have I got a hell of a lot of love for both of them.  
> As I said, i'm hoping to do others, so look out.

I felt as though I was about to go on stage for the very first time again. I remember how sick I felt when I saw the amount of people waiting to hear the strange new skiffle band ‘The Quarrymen.’ I was only fifteen back then.

I’m now 25 and I’m not always scared of going on stage. I love that butterflies feeling right before the curtain goes up. Of course, I haven’t done that whole concert thing for ages. Has it been a whole year yet? I don’t think so. Either way, I don’t feel so sick at the thought of playing in front of loads of people.

I feel sick at the thought of going back to Abbey Road. John and I couldn’t sleep for much of the night last night because we were so nervous. I don’t know what it is about it, but Eppy is constantly in mind. Ever tumbling into the next studio session and the next, now without the direction of our manager.

I’m a bit nervous to try and fill those shoes, but someone has to take some kind of control.

I got John up this morning and made him breakfast. I called Ringo and George to see what time they’d get to our house. We were off down the road with a very grumpy John driving and now, we’re here, standing in front of EMI as though we’d never seen in before, as though we’re trying to catch a glimpse of that famous band who worked here. Who were they again?

“We’ve got to do it eventually, boys.” I tell my three bandmates and I start to walk towards it, seeing as no one else is going to. They each follow quietly behind me.

“George!” George Martin is waiting to accompany us to studio two. I greet him cheerily, before John butts in to talk about his new song. I try to get my idea across too, but he has already told me what he thinks of, what I can guarantee as a hit, Hello Goodbye. He thinks it’s too commercial and not ‘different’ enough. Not like whatever psychedelic stuff he has all planned out.

Behind me, George and Ringo talk. They seem pretty nervous as well.

After a couple of hours relentlessly working on John’s song, wonderfully named ‘I am the Walrus’ Ringo, George and I dip out to have a smoke. John’s still pissed off with me. When I come back on my own, he won’t talk.

“Johnny…” I sing, stepping over to where he is.

“What do you want?”

“Are you pissed off at me because I got you up this morning?” I ask.

John looks up at me with furious eyes, “I’m pissed off because you fucking laughed at my song, I’m pissed off because you have some delusion that you’ll get the A-side and I’ll be stuck with the B-side when your song is shit, and I’m pissed off because you’re trying to be Eppy and you can’t be. You can try and try, but you are not the leader, you are not our manager and you are not Eppy.”

I grit my teeth, where the fuck has this come from? “I’m trying to put some order back into the band. That’s all.” I try to stay calm and quiet.

John is having no diplomacy. “You’re trying to be Eppy.” He repeats.

“No, I’m not!” I say, a little louder.

“Yes, you fucking are,” He looks around to check that no one is here to hear this next bit, “and don’t you fucking talk to me like that. You know where you stand with me. I am your fucking Alpha, don’t forget that.”

I step back a bit. I guess John is still hurting over Eppy’s death. I want to forgive him because of that, but things just stick like pins in my mind. I take a moment to organise my thoughts.

“I’m not going to forget that you’re my Alpha. I love you so much, but who is going to look after the band if it’s not one of us?”

“You’re not giving any of us a chance. You think you’re the only one who-“

Ringo and George walk in, confused as to what all the shouting is about.

“Is everything ok?” Ringo asks

John turns away, picking up his guitar.

I step forward, “Everything’s fine.” Then I add, in a slightly hushed tone, “Little domestic.”

Both George and Ringo mouth “Oh.” But John loudly scoffs.

I bloody well hope things will get better. This is not a great start to getting back to the studio, to recording. Everything feels very…

Wrong.


End file.
